6: Seige
by Math Girl
Summary: Less than an hour from home, trouble strikes again, as an old enemy returns to seek vengence. Alternate Universe.
1. Default Chapter

_This one follows hard on the heels of Viper, as the family gathers together and attempts to head home. It is alternate universe, with one or two original characters thrown in, and some new situations. _

**Siege**

**1**

Virgil Tracy practically hurled himself into the pilot's seat of Thunderbird 2, mind racing far ahead of his body as he checked his Bird's systems and keyed up the massive engines. Three weeks earlier, he'd put her down in the Mojave Desert, as close as he safely could to Los Angeles, then joined in the hunt for his missing brothers. Now, mission accomplished, it was time to go home.

In the copilot's seat, John used a secure code to contact the main computer on 5. Flying from California to the Island with dawn approaching, they were going to need radar cover and clear air space, or risk being spotted and followed.

The brothers hadn't many features in common besides a certain shared firmness of expression. Virgil was two years younger, dark of hair and eye, with the sort of square-jawed good looks one associated with cowboys and fighter pilots. John, at 22, was quieter than his husky brother. He was tall and slender; a fair skinned blond with blue-violet eyes and a face almost too beautiful to be masculine. John Tracy looked the most like his mother. Virgil was all Jeff's. And right now, both were in a tearing hurry to leave.

The big green cargo lifter began to vibrate around them as her engines came to full, thundering life.

"John...?" Virgil questioned tensely, eyes never leaving his instrument panel.

"We're good," his brother grunted. "Shadowbot's loaded and ready."

Virgil nodded in response, adding,

"Up as soon as Scott returns, then. Wanna go back and make certain everyone's strapped in?"

His taciturn brother made a few last keystrokes, then rose and strode for the rear hatch. Moving on to the next item on his pre-flight checklist, Virgil hit the comm, saying,

"Base from Thunderbird 2. On our way, Brains, just as soon as Scott gets back with the ladies."

"F- F.A.B. Virgil," The engineer's image came over the forward comm screen; skinny, pale, and drooping with exhaustion. "Are, ah..., are the boys alright?"

"Both alive..., but they'll be needing the red-carpet hospital stay, 'specially Gordon," Then, with a long sigh, "ETA fifty-five and one half minutes from take off."

"U-understood, Virgil. We'll, ah..., we'll be r- ready for you."

"Thanks, Brains." Virgil smiled a little, rubbing at an achey spot on his forehead. "Be good to get home."

Meanwhile, John had passed through the hatch and into the rear crew cabin, where a number of drop-down bunks and passenger seats accommodated still more family, most of them in various states of disrepair. The first he encountered were Alan and Gordon.

Alan, his right arm bound up to immobilize a broken collar bone, was perched uncomfortably at the edge of a nylon-webbed bunk, clinging with his good hand to the coated chain that bound cot to bulkhead. Gordon was strapped into the narrow bed; over three hours since their rescue, still unconscious. Not a good sign.

Alan Tracy was a baby-faced blond with round blue eyes and more mischief than a house full of cats, but at the moment he simply looked worried. Guilty, too. He watched Gordon as though afraid his brother would vanish if not guarded. Said John,

"You need to sit down and strap in, Alan. That's a dangerous position."

But Alan merely hunched up a bit, saying,

"Someone needs to be here, for when he wakes up. Waking up by yourself sucks, when you're injured."

"So does getting thrown across the cabin when turbulence hits." Then, as Alan's soft face took on the stubborn, sullen look that so often forecast trouble, "I'll make you a bargain. Promise to stay in it, and I'll pull down the upper bunk. That way you can be right here, _and_ secured for flight. Deal?"

Alan's face cleared a bit, and for an instant, he almost smiled. Moody little fellow.

"Yeah, okay. Deal. And, uh..., I know Dad already told you..., but thanks for finding us, John."

His older brother had already lowered the top bunk.

"Not a problem," he said quietly. "I'm only sorry I didn't figure things out a little sooner." He looked down at Gordon's still face as he said this, adding, "Never on time when it really matters...,"

Alan didn't reply, merely accepted John's help to clamber into the higher bunk, but for the first time in his life, he wondered if his perfect older brothers... Scott, Virgil and John... Might they occasionally feel the same stabs of worry and doubt that he did? Could it be that even _they_ were uncertain sometimes, and scared?

...No. Didn't seem likely. All of them, but John particularly, were above all that. They had to be.

A sudden, frantic babble of female voices interrupted Alan's reverie. TinTin, it sounded like, and his mom. John gave Alan a brief, expressionless nod, then left for the back of the crew cabin. Alan barely had time to notice.

His mother hurried across the deck, almost running, uttering a frantic little noise that was half his name, half sob. Reaching his side, she planted dozens of kisses on him, stroking his hair, sniffing his newly medicinal scent and crying. Alan tried to squirm away, as well as he could with a broken collarbone.

"Mom, I'm okay! For real, I'm fine...! C'mon, Mom! Not in front of _everybody!"_ (By which he meant TinTin. Once the dust settled, she'd never let him live this down...!)

"I know, I know..., I'm sorry, Baby! I was just so _worried_. You didn't call, you didn't come back, and then the car dealership, and your father didn't know anything, either, and..., and...," Gennine took a few very deep breaths, trying to calm herself. At times like this, she had a regrettable tendency to babble. "Um...," She began again, "It's okay, though, Baby..., because I know you're growing up..., and I totally support your need for independence." Another long, shaky breath, and then she changed the subject. "Where's your brother?"

Alan's expression darkened, shifting in mere seconds from annoyed to bleak.

"Down there," he replied, very quietly.

Stooping to peer into the lower bunk, Gennine whispered,

"Oh, no..., oh, Sweetie...!"

Gordon lay pale and quiet, his stillness too deep to be natural. Like Alan, he had a sharp chemical scent to him, alien and upsetting. Gennine bit her lip. Scott had told her some of what had happened, but not that the boys had been so viciously injured. Putting a hand to Gordon's bruised forehead, she said,

"Hang on, Sweetie; they're hurrying."

This, then, was why she'd abandoned Jeff Tracy, all those years ago; this madness of his that flung his sons into harm's way, trying make up for the loss of his first wife by saving the lives of others. That..., and the loneliness.

Someone had come over to stand beside her. Gennine stiffened. She didn't need the faint aroma of 'Platinum Egoiste' , cigars and power to tell her that Jeff was nearby. The prickly skin on the back of her neck would have done it.

He cleared his throat, so she steeled herself and looked up. Her former husband was bent over slightly, one arm resting on the edge of Alan's bunk. Gennine had to throttle the urge to strike it away.

"Brains 'll have them patched up good as new in no time," he informed her. "It'll be alright. You'll see."

She supposed he meant to be comforting, but Jeff's casual tone rubbed her entirely the wrong way. Raising a hand to cut him off, Gennine said (almost firmly),

"Jeff, this ends today, here and now. I mean it. As soon as he's healed enough, I'm taking Alan, and moving away. And if you try to find us, or pull him back into this... _insanity_... again, I'll go to the police. I will do what I have to, to keep my son safe!" Her other hand, resting on Gordon's shoulder, closed into a small, determined fist. "Gordon, too, if he wants to come with us."

Jeff's face hardened; craggy and severe as a granite cliff side.

"We'll discuss this later, Gennine, when you're through being emotional."

And with that, Jeff Tracy straightened, turned on his heel and left, heading down-cabin to the icy blonde that watied there. For just an instant, Gennine and Penelope locked gazes. Then Gennine looked away. She was no match for Penelope Creighton-Ward, and she knew it. The Brit was welcome to Jeff, his fortune and everything else. All Gennine wanted was a normal life somewhere sane and safe, along with her boys.

Back in the cockpit, meanwhile, Scott Tracy was making ready to leave. Clasping Virgil's broad shoulder, he gave his brother a fond shake, saying,

"I'll meet you back at the island, as soon as possible. Fly safe, and take care of the others."

Virgil nodded slowly, looking rather troubled.

"Not second-guessing you, Scott," he began, hesitantly, "But..., are you _sure?_ Father won't likely...,"

Scott cut him off.

"Yeah, Virge. I'm sure. She's a friend..., maybe more than that, and I'll be damned if I'm going to leave her behind while the Hood, and God knows who else, is out there hunting us. If they tracked us as far as Gordon and Alan, Cindy's in danger, too, and I won't desert her. Period."

"Okay." Virgil accepted his older brother's decision, and made it his own. By this time, John had returned to the cockpit, catching the tail-end of the conversation. Glancing over at him, Virgil continued. "Do what you have to. We'll run interference."

Scott smiled at his brothers, his blue eyes reflecting a depth of emotion he'd never express in words.

"Thanks, both of you. See you back at the rock." Then he was out the hatch, down the ladder, and gone.

Resuming his seat, Virgil strapped in, taking hold of the steering yoke and throttle.

"Ready?" He asked John. When his brother nodded, he said, "Let's go home."


	2. Chapter 2: Airborne

_TinTin tries to help Gordon, and Scott picks up a friend. Alternate universe, don't own 'em, just like 'em. _

2

_Aboard Thunderbird 2:_

TinTin sat with Gordon, giving Alan and his mother a little space to talk things over. Meanwhile, she waited, and worried. Everyone spoke as though Gordon was merely unconscious, as though all he had to do was sleep off a drug, and all would be well..., but something was wrong. Just what it was, and how she knew it, TinTin couldn't have explained. She got feelings about people a lot, lately; sometimes knowing what they were thinking or feeling before they said a word. And sometimes... though her father had told her that such things were from the devil... sometimes she could even influence their actions. It was weird, and a little scary, though something else was bothering her at the moment.

Most people went about in a haze of shifting mood and intentions. Even asleep, they were 'noisy' in a way she couldn't put into words. But Gordon just lay there, as still and empty as an abandoned chrysalis. Definitely, something was wrong.

TinTin hesitated. She'd never deliberately tried to use this possibly demonic ability of hers, usually crowding her mind with complex theories and loud music to drown it out. Now though..., Maybe God would forgive her, and Papa too, if she was only trying to help...?

As Thunderbird 2 lifted off, she put a slow hand forth, and stroked Gordon's face.

...And found herself, somehow, 'inside'. She had to make sense of the strangeness around her, so she recast it as a place. A forest; seared, burned and barren. The 'sky' was a murky grey, the ground underfoot thick with glowing ash. Reaching out, TinTin touched the end of a blackened branch, only to have it crumble away before her eyes, leaving behind the fading memory of a heavy golden medal being hung about his/her neck.

TinTin shuddered. All around her the trees... _the neurons..._, were dying back, as though something vital had been withdrawn from them. She had to stop it, somehow; Had to bring Gordon back before he vanished forever.

Hurrying deeper within, she sought desperately for some trace of consciousness, encountering one crumbling memory trace after another. Thoughts and feelings, many of them involving her, blackened and shriveled like an old love letter tossed onto the coals. And then, locked away in the oldest, most mechanical part of his injured mind, TinTin spied a faint glimmer. She sped after and caught it, visualized herself breathing a spark into full life, sheltering it from the effects of the drug while it grew. And things began to happen. Strangely..., and wonderfully like the lights of a city coming on again after a blackout..., that which made him _Gordon_ returned.

Then she was outside again, pushed forth by a tidal wave of growing consciousness. His eyes opened, just for a moment.

"Oww...," Gordon moaned softly, making a brief, feeble attempt to bring a hand to his head. Straps wouldn't allow it, though, so he settled for passing out, shifting into a fitful, twitchy sleep.

Terribly exhausted, TinTin joined him, hooking an arm through one of the safety straps and setting her head down upon her friend's chest. Moments later, she, too, was asleep, lulled by his heartbeat, and Thunderbird 2's deep, thrumming vibration.

_San Francisco:_

The knock, three sharp, business-like raps, startled Cindy off the couch, nearly causing her to spill coffee on her laptop. Only a cat-like, midair twist prevented the tragedy of a java-related data dump, and a lost story. Cursing under her breath (that coffee was _hot)_, Cindy stomped to the front door and squinted through the peephole.

An instant later she'd all but torn it from its hinges, slamming open latches and deadbolts with eager haste.

_"Scott!"_

He stood on her doorstep with his hands in his pockets, in clothes he'd clearly just purchased (the white shirt was still creased from its package), looking tremendously relieved to see her.

Seizing his arm, Cindy yanked him inside and shut the door. First she embraced and kissed him. Then, recalling that both she and the townhouse were... well... _casual,_ she pulled away and covered her face.

"Oh no! Why didn't you call! _I'm not wearing any makeup!"_ She cried piteously. Scott laughed a little, pulling her hands away to look at her.

"You weren't wearing any when we first met, either," he told the humiliated reporter, "and it's still the prettiest face I've ever seen."

That, of course, undid her completely. She grinned at him, forgetting all about the messy house and her careless outfit of ponytail, bare feet, U.S.C. sweatshirt and jeans.

"So much for trying to stay mad! Welcome to my... _really ..._ humble abode. What can I do you for, Scott? Coffee?" She winced, indicating a large, soggy brown stain on her red and gold sweatshirt. "It's the new neutral."

"I, uh... I can see that," Scott smiled, kissing her forehead. Then, more seriously, "I'm here because things have gotten complicated again, and we're going to have to disappear from public life... maybe for quite awhile. The truth is...," he took her hands again, "Someone's gunning for us. They came real close to nailing Alan and Gordon... No, the boys 'll be alright, I think, minor injuries, mostly... But they, all of us, are going to have to go to, um..., a kind of safe place, we have."

Cindy went suddenly pale as she processed this information.

"You're leaving?" She whispered.

"No choice," Scott replied, adding more urgently, "except for yours. I, uh..., want you to come along. I'll be honest, Hon, I don't know how long we'll have to lie low. Couple of months, maybe more, before things get handled, and John can clean up the data stream." Then, pulling her a bit closer. "I don't want to leave you, Cindy. Will you come?"

About ten million things flashed through her mind, just then. Job, bills, friends, her dad, the complete dangerous weirdness of Scott's life. And then she said,

"We're traveling light?"

A smile broke out all over his handsome face.

"Yeah. Keep it simple. Ready to go in fifteen minutes, tops."

Cindy tiptoed up, kissed his cheek, then broke away.

"Okay, gimme a sec to get packed, and we're gone!"

Laptop, PDA, a change of clothes, makeup case, a novel, some family pictures and a notebook, and she was ready. They were halfway out the door when a sudden thought struck Cindy. Crying,

_"Fred!" _She shoved her kit at Scott, and sped back into the house.

"Fred?" Scott repeated, more than a little confused. "Who's Fred?"

Then Cindy came panting back, lugging a tattered Coleus in a plastic pot.

"Can't leave Fred," she announced firmly. "He's been with me forever. He's a veteran."

Scott took the plant, diplomatically refraining from pointing out that Fred looked like he'd actually be better off if she left him. Oh, well. At least it wasn't a cat...

Thirty seconds later, they were headed for the airport.


	3. Chapter 3: Down

_Thunderbird 2 is fired upon while still at sea._

3

Dawn had broken, and Thunderbird 2 was halfway home. Virgil and John were having one of those desultory "guy" conversations; the kind that were more grunt and familyin-joke than anything else. Then a harsh, beeping alarm went off, followed by another.

_"What the hell...?"_ John leaned over his console, unable to believe what he was seeing. The alarm was coming from Thunderbird 5, and it wasn't a mission alert.

"What's going on?" Virgil asked tensely, glancing over from the pilot's seat.

A couple of swift commands later, John pulled up and magnified a blurry satellite image of 5. Something was streaking toward her. Several somethings. Missiles?

_"Shit!"_ John snarled, "the shields have been lowered! She's under attack!"

Virgil's hands tightened on the steering yoke. Instinctively, he throttled forward.

"How?" He demanded, over the shrilling alarms.

"One of our secure codes. Alan's. Damn it! I'm being overridden!"

The first missile hit, touching off a silent blossom of white-hot flame and glittering debris. Then the next. Half the ring disintegrated as John worked desperately to reach Thunderbird 5's computer. Now the docking bay hatch blew out, blasted into space by a jet of burning fuel. The oxygen tanks.

Another alarm went off, but John didn't notice. Trying code after code, one failed command after another, he finally got through to 5.

"John Tracy...," she began, in response to his hastily typed orders. Then a final, enormous explosion tore the mortally wounded space station apart. A spinning, blazing chunk of debris grew to fill the comm screen, and the satellite picture cut suddenly off. Thunderbird 5 was gone, and with her, shadowbot.

"John!" Virgil called. The missile lock sensor was going crazy. They were being targeted. "We've lost shields and cover." Then, as he checked his heads-up display, "three missiles on our tail, hot and locked on."

Virgil fired a cloud of metallic chaff into the rose-tinted clouds, trying to fool the missiles' targeting systems. No luck. They came on, drawing closer to the giant cargo lifter with every second that passed. Virgil took evasive action, pulled up hard and banked sharply to the right. Two of the missiles shrieked past on both sides, blowing themselves to bits not a hundred yards away. A storm of burning debris, like fiery hail, clattered against hull and windows. Reinforced glass cracked beneath the barrage. Air began hissing out through dozens of tiny holes.

Where was the other missile? Virgil cursed quietly as his Bird's guidance and tracking systems went down, cut off remotely using the same secure code that had doomed Thunderbird 5.

"John...!" He repeated, gritting his teeth against the urge to shout.

"I'm trying," his brother replied hoarsely. "Everything I do is being countermanded. Can't get through to Scott, or the island. Someone's gotten into the..."

He never finished the sentence. A sudden, world-filling detonation cut off all lights and instrumentation, filling the cockpit with stinging smoke. They weren't finished, though. Not yet. At the last possible instant, John had scraped together a shield of sorts, diverting power from the engines to the dark energy generator. Negative pressure sucked away most of the missile's force... andknocked out the broken glass in the left window, cutting John up pretty badly. Loose articles began whipping out through the hole, hammering both men as they flew by. All of a sudden it was knife-edge cold, and hard to breathe.

Then the rear hatch opened, and Gordon stumbled in, looking terribly confused, TinTin right behind him. Oxygen masks had automatically dropped from the overhead at the sudden loss of cabin pressure. TinTin seized one, shut the hatch, then crept along the bulkhead to help Gordon get John out of the copilot's seat.

Virgil pushed the steering yoke in as far as it would go, heading for denser air.

_'No more missiles,'_ He pled silently. _'Please, no more. She can't take another hit like that one.'_

Buffeted by wind and noise, Gordon somehow got John unstrapped, and handed him over to TinTin, who levered the wounded man into a rear seat. Brushing blood and broken glass off the copilot's chair, Gordon sat down and strapped in. Then, reaching for the steering rocket controls, he...

...Had no idea what to do. Nothing. Not the faintest clue. The big guy next to him was obviously busy, so Gordon looked over at the pretty girl he'd woken up with when the world exploded. She seemed to sense his bewilderment, for she looked up from tending her blood-soaked patient. The girl didn't say anything, but all at once images, instructions, flooded Gordon's mind.

Hesitantly at first, then with gathering confidence, he manipulated the rockets, pushing the plane (?) halfway out of its dive.

"Gordon, we gotta have more lift!" Virgil shouted, over the roar of wind and engine. Having reached a safer altitude, he was fighting to pull Thunderbird 2's nose back up.

"I'm workin' on it!" his younger brother yelled back. There was something odd about his voice and manner, but Virgil was too busy trying to figure out their position to worry about it now.

_'Time, speed and distance,'_ he thought furiously, visualizing their exact location when the instruments went down. Then, using his near-autistic memory for time and airspeed, Virgil worked out their current location in his head. He had a knee board full of charts and tables strapped to his right leg. Old fashioned, maybe, but Virgil had learned to fly from Grandad. Paging through with urgent haste, he found the right map and sector..., and a place to put down. A small island, 205.361 nautical miles away.

"Just a little further, Big Girl," he urged, putting a hand on her dimly flickering instrument panel. "Just a stone's throw."

Meanwhile, following a sudden, wordless prompt, Gordon toggled the steering rockets as far under as they'd go, directing their thrust downward, and giving the pilot another thousand tons of desperately needed lift. Now, if only he had some idea what was happening...!

With only a compass and his own memory, Virgil guided Thunderbird 2 toward the tiny island his charts insisted was out there. Praying hard, he glanced at his wrist comm; without 5, useless now as anything but a watch. Two minutes... one... thirty seconds... and..., _There! _Directly ahead, precisely where the map had indicated, a swirling vortex in the clouds betrayed the presence of a mountain peak. San Mateo!

Only, they were losing altitude so fast, Virgil wasn't sure they'd make it that far. He wrestled the yoke back, muttering,

"Come on, Girl; nose up. Almost there...!"

Following another of those silent directives, Gordon reached across the console and pressed a certain button, then pressed it again to confirm. With a deep, booming crump, Thunderbird 2 dropped her pod in midair, sending several hundred thousand tons of vehicles and equipment to the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, and lightening her load just enough to make landfall.

It wasn't pretty. She came planing in across the cove, spraying great sheets of glistening green seawater, smashing through a coral reef and halfway up the black sand beach, her engines bursting into flame in the process. Thunderbird 2 ground to a halt at last in a vast pile of chewed-up palm trees, smoke pouring from long, jagged rents in her belly and sides. For many long minutes, nothing moved but the clouds of screaming birds that wheeled and dove at the enormous carcass, stubbornly defending burnt-up nests and cindered young. Then the rain came.

_Tracy Island:_

The silver jet touched down on the island's little airstrip after a long, tense flight. At first, all had gone well. Shadowbot was up and covering their tracks, and Scott had pushed the stealthily converted plane to the speed of sound (to impress Cindy, mostly). They'd even joked around a bit about the sad, purplish-green plant. Fred did not appear to enjoy flying.

Then the alarms went off... the comm system failed... and shadowbot cut off, leaving the streaking corporate jet exposed to startled radar operators all over the Pacific. Scott slowed immediately, hoping that the air-traffic controllers would put their sudden appearance down to stress or Caffeine withdrawal. Then he tried to call in. Nothing. Neither the island, nor Thunderbird 5 was responding. Heart freezing within him, Scott attempted to raise his brother, in Thunderbird 2. Silence, but for a weird, staticky whine. It was the hardest thing he'd ever had to do, keeping his speed under control while he flew to the island, not knowing what had happened, or what he'd find when he got there.

Gauging the seriousness of the situation by Scott's grim face, Cindy stroked his arm and stayed quiet. He was quite close to the island before its unboosted signal got through, and he heard from Brains, who sounded like he was pulling his hair out.

"S-Scott! Th-th-thank God!" The engineer called over the radio. "G-get, ah... get back, ASAP. W-we've got to c-come up with, ah... with a plan of some k-kind. H-hurry!"

Minutes later, Scott cut down through the sullen clouds, his collision lights painting the swirling vapor in blinking red and green. Reaching ground, he put her down with unaccustomed roughness, bouncing to a halt beside the parked Humvee that held Kyrano.

"Mr. Scott!" The old retainer called, rushing across the wet tarmac, head lowered against a hard, pelting rain. "You have come at last!"

Scott handed Cindy down from the plane, introduced her to his father's manservant, and got directly to business, striding over to the humvee without even bothering to unload their luggage.

"Kyrano, what's happened!" He demanded, "What've you heard from the rest of the family?"

"Mr. Scott," the old man almost sobbed, wringing his slender hands, "I am unable tosay what has become of the others, for we have had no contact with them since this morning. Also, Young Sir...," Kyrano's grey head bowed still further, water running unheeded across his seamed and careworn face. " ...Thunderbird 5 has been destroyed. It... seems likely that...,"

Scott held up a hand, cutting the old man off.

"They're fine, Kyrano. All of them. Virgil can land with one engine and half a wing, and he's got John and Gordon with him, _and_ Father. Whatever's happened is a comm problem. _Got it?"_

Kyrano nodded.

"Yes, Mr. Tracy," he responded quietly, holding the passenger door open for Scott and Cindy. That hurt. It was as though Kyrano had already given up on Father and the others; as if he'd decided that Scott was now lord and master of the island, and Tracy Aerospace. A boiling-harsh response was killed by the feeble beeping of his wrist comm. Brain's thin face, almost entirely snowed out by static, peered out of the watch's tiny screen.

"Is it working...? Have I got a signal? S- Scott? I'll meet you at, ah... at the office. Someone's c-coming!"


	4. Chapter 4: Reaction

_Scott arrives at the island, and the rest of the family heads for shelter._

4

They'd been shaken up like marbles in a can, hurled so hard against the seat straps that webbing and buckles were tattooed onto their flesh in lurid purple.

Jeff at once tore free of his restraints and busied himself evacuating the rear crew cabin, directing traffic with shouted orders and rough shoves. Alan, he carried. The rest, he herded, calling up front to be sure the others were headed for safety, as well.

In the blazing chaos of the cockpit, Virgil struggled to shut down his Bird's remaining systems, while Gordon held the fire at bay with a chemical extinguisher. All was crackling, sparking, roaring confusion, and hot as hell. TinTin helped John up, Gordon covering their awkward retreat as best he could while defending the pilot. Blood was still streaming from the side of John's neck, forcing the girl to make a pad from her ripped sleeve and clap it down on the wound. Helped a little, but there was a jagged sliver of glass lodged in there good and tight, and it was going to have to come out before it worked its way over to his jugular. Understanding this, he moved as carefully as possible, and avoided turning his head, or talking.

Virgil shut down everything but the main reactors, venting huge gouts of rocket fuel to starve the greedy engine fire. The blaze in the cockpit, Gordon beat back an inch at a time, with chemical powder and foolhardy courage. Soon, nothing remained but smoky air and spitting wires.

"Get out!" Virgil shouted at TinTin and his brothers, "Get as far away as you can! She could still go up!"

TinTin nodded, helping John through the emergency escape hatch and down the ladder, all the while keeping pressure on that time bomb of a wound.

Gordon hesitated, though. The big guy..., whatever his name was..., didn't show any signs of leaving. Instead, he'd lunged over to a bulkhead storage locker, and was yanking out large-bore rifles. Impulsively, Gordon put out a hand and seized the pilot's singed uniform sleeve.

"And you?" He asked, "Are you not comin', as well?"

The pilot shifted his stance, looking away.

"No." He replied shortly. "I'm not going. Someone shot us down. They're gonna come looking for their prize. And when they do, they're gonna get their asses shot off." He meant to go down defending his fallen plane, in other words.

Needing help, Gordon looked around, but the pretty girl was gone already. A glance at the instrument panel put a thought in his head... or she did, maybe; something about...

"The repair system!" He blurted, taking firmer hold on the pilot's sleeve. "There 're... little robots, aren't there? Many hundreds?" An image came to him, of the plane's green hull boiling with fast moving repair drones.

The pilot's face changed, splitting suddenly into a relieved smile. Pulling his arm free, he slapped Gordon so hard on the back, the young swimmer was convinced he'd cracked whatever ribs the seat straps had missed. So much for breathing...

"Gordon, you're one hell of a copilot. We get those microbots up, and anyone who tries to put a hand on 2 'll pull back a cauterized stump."

Pivoting back to the instrument panel, the pilot punched in a few rapid commands. Then it was time to go. The two of them worked their way out the escape hatch and down a very long ladder, burdened with a stack of rifles that more closely resembled field artillery than personal weapons. The one the pilot favored would have given a fatal hemorrhage to a steam locomotive.

They joined the others at the tree line, where a tall, grey-haired man with a deep voice stood barking orders at a knot of weary passengers. Gordon was instantly suspicious, glancing at his pilot friend and the little Chinese girl for cues. They seemed inclined to listen to the man, so Gordon decided to play along, at least until he found out what had happened to his teammates, and how he'd gotten _here_.

The decision was handed down to leave the beach for higher ground. A thickly forested mountain shredded the streaming rain clouds above them, its many tall crags holding the promise of sheltering caves, where they might see to their injured in safety.

Listening to the others, Gordon gathered that they, too, believed the green plane hadn't just crashed. Instead, it had been deliberately blown out of the sky, by folk who were likely to show up soon, and finish what they'd started. Nor was that all. The cell phones and comms had been blocked somehow, leaving them stranded, with no means of summoning help. It was vital that they hide.

To Gordon's immense shock, though, they left somebody behind; an unconscious female in some kind of black, one-piece uniform. She'd been brought from the rear crew cabin over an older man's shoulder, battered senseless in the crash, maybe.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Milady," said the man who'd brought her out (hawk-nosed and wiry, with greying hair and a card-sharp's steely gaze), "But what shall I do wi' _this_ baggage? In me prime, I might've enjoyed a brisk trot up 'ill wi' a lass on me back, but me glory days 're long past, an' th' rain sets me rheumatics off sumthin' fierce. Just pitch 'er into th' surf, shall I?"

One of the women (Scary Blonde, Gordon nicknamed her) cast him a brief, haughty glance, frowning slightly.

"Parker," she said reprovingly, "It is all one to me what becomes of her sort. Rubbish disposal is _your_ responsibility. I merely generate the bodies. What happens thereafter is no concern of mine. See to it."

Parker gave a humble little half bow.

"Yes, Milady. Thousan' apologies; fergot me business there, fer jus' a bit."

The blonde shook out her hair, then cocked her arms up and back, and tied the long, golden mass into a loose knot at the nape of her slender neck. (And showed off her figure in the process.)

"Very good, Parker," she dismissed him, turning away. "I trust that you'll not let it happen again."

Parker started to move off, was stopped by the pilot.

"Maybe we could keep her around," he suggested, "as bargaining leverage, while the repair bots work on Two."

The blonde gave him a fond, indulgent little smile.

"Virgil, dear, you can be _so _sentimental, and at the _least_ suitable moments! We've neither the time, nor space to deal with a hostage, Dearest. And I, for one, do _not _propose to pop her unconscious again, every time she stirs. Messy business altogether, and far too fatiguing."

Virgil might have said more, but the man who'd given all the orders so far cut him off.

"I have to agree with Penny. If she wakes up and starts screaming, or gets free somehow and attacks while we sleep, we're in trouble." Turning to face Parker, he said, "Just leave her on the ground within sight of the beach. If her cronies are interested, they'll pick her up. If not..." he gave the woman a very cold glance. "...She's on her own, with at least as good a chance as we've got. Let's go."

Parker obeyed, and just like that, the matter was settled, though it still felt very wrong to Gordon. He looked back a lot as they headed into the steaming jungle, hoping nothing big and vicious came after the woman while she lay there, helpless.

Virgil, too, was slow to leave, though not for the same reason. Gazing back at the still smouldering wreck, he said, so quietly that Gordon barely heard him,

"I'm coming back, I promise. And I'll be watching. Anyone tries to take you, will have to go through me." Not since Antarctica had he seen her so wounded.

_Tracy Island:_

Soaking wet and worried, Scott shivered in the sudden chill as he vaulted the stairs to his father's office. _Damn air conditioning...! _

Cindy followed more slowly with Kyrano, not wishing to desert the old servant. In too great a hurry to let the doors recognize him and open of themselves, Scott helped them along with a shove and a muttered curse. Brains straightened from the radar console when Scott entered the office, his gaunt face lit from below by the screen's pale corpse-light.

"Show me!" Scott demanded without preamble, striding across the room. Hackenbacker indicated the long-range radar screen, pointing out seven clusters of fast-moving water craft closing in from the northwest. The unidentified craft, which were rocketing along at nearly Thunderbird 4 speeds, transmitted no call numbers. Nor did they answer Brains' repeated hails.

"Hostiles?" Scott inquired tensely, looking up from the screen.

"I'm, ah... I'm afraid s-so, Scott. W-we don't have m-many friends."

"Damn." Scott straightened, rubbing hard at the back of his neck. "What's their ETA?"

"F-fifteen minutes at, ah... at most. W-we've, ah... we've also gotten a c- call from Admiral Jessup, of the World N-Navy. Seems they've, ah... they've g-gotten a number of r-reports from air traffic controllers about an unregistered s-supersonic flight, and they w-wish to investigate."

Scott shook his head.

"This just keeps right on getting better," he growled. "Well, the World Navy can take a number and get in line. First things first. Priority one is dealing with the hostiles, then reestablishing contact with Thunderbird 2, and _then,_ when everything else gets handled, I'll return Jessup's call."

Brains made an apprehensive _'I really hate to tell you this' _face, saying,

"A-actually, Scott, it's m-more a matter of s-seeing him. J-Jessup's on his, ah... his way, too. B-but on the bright side, we might be able to let, ah... let one problem solve the other."

Scott nodded.

"Yeah..., I see what you're getting at, Brains. Send out a distress call. Indicate that Anti-government terrorists are trying to seize the island, then initiate Operation Coverup. Meantime, I'll do what I can to pin-point the location of..."

The office doors opened once more. Kyrano and Cindy had arrived, and Scott realized too late that he should have warned Brains.

Catching sight of a stranger (and a woman, at that ) Hackenbacker immediately went into vapor lock; fidgeting, dropping his pen, and knocking over a half-filled cup of coffee. Such was his agitation that the engineer mumbled an incoherent excuse and lunged for Thunderbird 2's maintenance access door. Mentally, Scott kicked himself. Unexpected social situations were the bane of Hackenbacker's existence. In fact, he was almost pathologically shy, limiting his personal contacts to the Tracys, their friends, and the occasional swift rescue.

Giving Cindy an apologetic shrug, Scott made the distress call himself, then punched in the console command that initiated Operation Coverup. With a low, smooth, whirring noise, the office began to change. Scanning and command consoles vanished into the thickly carpeted floor; the desk converted from coffee-ringed, high-tech work station to executive status symbol; and the portrait comms pivoted out of sight with a series of sharp, metallic clicks, their uniformed subjects now in various characteristic poses.

Scott was shown by a P51 Mustang, one hand on its propellor, a proud smile on his face. John, looking slightly away from the viewer, was pictured in a library, standing beside an antique globe. Virgil was in the woods with a couple of spotted bird dogs at his feet, and a jagged mountain range in the distance, looking nearly as wild as the landscape. Gordon stood by the sea, with an open, friendly smile and slightly wind-mussed hair. Alan's picture was an old one, from his little-league baseball days... which had lasted only slightly longer than his stint in the boy scouts. Virgil had been working from a photograph on this one, but he'd done an admirable job of capturing Alan's attitude (at once defensive and hell-raising), anyway.

Scott did a swift 360, reassuring himself that everything was set. _'Yup,'_ he thought, _'looks like some corporate shark's home away from home.'_

"Scotty? I heard noises, and I thought I'd come have a look."

He turned, saw an elderly lady standing in the open doorway. Short and slightly plump, she had waist-length silver hair worn in a coiled plait at the back of her head, and a set of tortoiseshell spectacles that made her eyes (moist and brown as potting soil) look enormous. Victoria Tracy. Jeff's widowed mother.

"Grandma!"

Scott loped over and drew the old woman gently into the office. Kissing her cheek, he said,

"Grandma, there's been a little trouble. Everything's going to be fine, but we're going to have some visitors, and they might want to ask a few questions."

Victoria blinked up at him, smoothing her flowered cotton dress with both hands. She looked loving and quizzical, like some sort of cartoon owl.

"Visitors? Not those cheeky bucks from the Bureau of Land Management, are they? 'Cause I've got a shotgun loaded with rock salt leaning up against my bedpost right this minute!"

Scott hid a smile.

"No, Ma'am. Just some World Navy officials poking around for a way to..."

Victoria drew herself up to her full four foot, eight inches. Times like this, her Arapaho blood showed proud and hot, as did her absolute hatred of government interference.

"Goddam WorldGov agents!" she snapped. "Try to make a little money, try to run a few head of cattle, and they land on you like a goddam plague of locusts! Oh, if Grant was here, wouldn't he just give 'em holy hell! Well, let 'em come on, then! I've got something for 'em!"

Scott patted his grandmother's trembling shoulder and made a mental note not to get caught in the crossfire. He had to go, for the unknown hostiles would hit the beach soon, and they'd have to be held off somehow, until the World Navy arrived. But first...

Reaching for Cindy's hand, Scott pulled her over to stand beside him.

"Grandma," he began, a bit nervously, "I'd like you to meet Cindy Taylor. She's... uh..., I mean..., She...,"

Victoria peered solemnly up at Cindy, looking into her face for a long, quiet moment. Then she said,

"Welcome to the family, Young Lady. I'm Victoria Tracy. Come sit with me, and we'll have ourselves a nice chat, whilst Scotty sets up for the damn G-men. Can you shoot?"

Cindy took the old woman's proffered hand, smiling despite her concerns.

"Yes, Mrs. Tracy. I can handle a shot gun. I've broken my share of clay pigeons."

Victoria snorted.

"Clay pigeons! Damn waste of time! Let me tell you about the night that rabid grizzly busted into my kitchen, just as I was fetching Thanksgiving dinner! Fur and gravy all over the damn place!"

Cindy looked up, meeting Scott's warm gaze over Victoria Tracy's head. He was smiling at her, and his look said,

_'They're going to love you as much as I do.'_


	5. Chapter 5: Calm

_The Tracys must come up with a scheme to recapture Thunderbird 2._

5

Virgil and Gordon brought up the rear of the family's long retreat up the mountainside. It was nearly noon. Rain hissed and spattered through the dense foliage, creating a host of sudden waterfalls and mud flows..., and erasing their tracks.

Birds and small animals screamed and chattered in the treetops, their weird cries setting Gordon very much on edge. Watching covertly as his brother startled at noises and sights that should have been familiar, Virgil frowned. He'd have asked a few blunt, exasperated questions, but they came suddenly upon two exhausted fellow climbers, trying vainly to scramble up a mud-slick, forty-five degree slope. Gennine and Alan, from Virgil's perspective; a pretty blonde woman and a kid with a broken arm, from Gordon's.

Without a word, Virgil sloshed over and lifted Alan off his feet, meaning to carry his youngest brother the rest of the way. Alan protested blurrily, then gave in; too sore and tired to pretend he could handle the climb alone.

Gordon went to the woman, looking drenched to the bone and close to collapse, herself. Probably the only passenger who'd brought along her luggage, she'd been wrestling a small suitcase up the slope, or trying to. He gave her a polite little nod and took the case from her unresisting grip, saying,

"Can I help you with that, Ma'am?"

She smiled, and the sad shadows temporarily vanished from her wide blue eyes.

"Of course, Sweetie. Thank you." And then she kissed his cheek, adding, "How 're you doing?"

Gordon considered, floundering a bit on how best to respond. He still wasn't sure who all these people were, nor how he'd come to be among them, but he'd decided to reserve his questions for later, when it wasn't so hard to think.

"Well...," he began, stoutly enough, "...except for the bit with th' crash... and someone bein' after us... and this bloody great mountain...," All of a sudden, Gordon paused. _'I'm fine',_ he'd been about to say. Then the true scope of his situation struck. Shaking his head, he finished with a wan smile, "...hell, I dunno."

The woman managed a little laugh.

"Me, either," she confided.

They continued the climb together, reaching the shelter of Jeff's chosen cave just as the first heli-jets began buzzing the island.

_Tracy Island:_

Once the door shut behind Scott, Victoria Tracy put a finger to her lips in a silencing gesture, then drew Cindy out of the office through a back way.

"No nice little chat, I take it?" Cindy whispered, following Mrs. Tracy up a set of narrow stairs and into another part of the house. The old woman, surprisingly spry for her age, paused on the second landing and gave Cindy an amused, slightly reproving look.

"Girl, I trust my menfolks as much as anyone," Victoria told her, resuming the climb. "Lord knows I'm overrun with 'em! But I've always held the notion that a woman oughta be able to do for herself. I guess I've defended my land and family a time or two before, and I still got a few good fights left in me. ...Wait here."

By this time, they'd come to Mrs. Tracy's lacy, picture-filled sitting room. As Cindy looked around, Victoria pattered into a cozy bedroom furnished with braided rugs, a big feather bed, and, yes, an oiled shotgun leaning casually against the wooden four-poster. Mrs. Tracy returned in moments, toting two of the things.

"Here," she said, holding out the newest looking firearm. "You take this one..., I'll keep Hank."

Cindy accepted the weapon (a sleek, double barreled, break action 12-gauge) and a big box of shells loaded with sharp, chunky rock salt.

"Take the tar and pepper outta pretty near anyone, that will," Mrs. Tracy told her proudly. "Now, come along, Girl. Scotty needs all the help he can get."

_On the mountain:_

The cave was deep enough to hide them from thermal scans, with a small, vine-draped entrance, walls of hardened lava and a floor of gritty sand. Jeff led the group within, sending Virgil and Gordon a bit ahead with flashlights, to be sure that the cavern was as safe and deserted as it looked. They explored for thirty minutes or so, finding nothing alarming. Then...,

"Careful. End of the road," Virgil murmured, hauling Gordon away from a sudden sharp drop-off. "Getting tired of yanking you and your buddy out of lava tunnels."

It was a joke and a test, and Gordon failed.

"Right. Sorry. Didn't see it," was all he said, not seeming to understand the reference.

Frowning, Virgil rubbed at his unshaven jaw and decided to push further, while they still had time to talk.

"That was quick thinking, Kiddo, dropping the pod like that," he said, watching his brother's face. "Too bad it wasn't pod 4, huh? That worthless piece of crap _belongs _at the bottom of the sea."

"Umm..., right."

If he'd been on about the geochemical properties of Canadian tar sands, Gordon couldn't have looked any more bewildered. Clearly nervous, the younger Tracy turned to leave.

_"That's it." _Virgil's hand shot out, seized his brother's shoulder, and whipped him around again. "Talk to me, Gordon! What's...?"

Then TinTin appeared, the worry in her big, dark eyes diverting Virgil's attention.

"He's gotten worse," she informed them, referring to John. "I think the climb drove the glass in deeper. I have to get it out, but I need help."

Virgil glanced over at Gordon, still concerned, but his brother simply nodded, saying,

"Tell us what y' need, Angel."

It was a clumsy, messy operation, performed without anesthesia, under the most primitive conditions, with only the contents of a first aid kit to draw upon. Watching TinTin set up, Gennine hesitated. In her bag, she had a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol... But Alan was in serious pain now, as well, the initial numbness of his broken bone having long since passed.

She looked from John, paper white where he wasn't streaked red, to Alan, slumped against the cave wall like an empty sack. Then she opened her case and pulled out the bottle. Popping the cap with a deft twist, Gennine poured half the contents out onto her palm and thence into a relatively dry inner pocket. Then, sealing the bottle, she pulled another item out, and came timidly forward.

"Gordon?" she ventured, approaching the auburn-haired boy she'd come to think of as almost another son. When he turned, she held out the medicine, saying, "For later, when it's safe for him to swallow something. And this might help, too."

Besides the Tylenol, she'd come up with a portable sewing kit, the sort working women used to mend a loose button, or a torn hem. Gordon gratefully accepted the offerings, as well as the hug that accompanied them. Then, it was time to go to work.

While Gennine retreated to Alan's side, and Parker and Lady Penelope kept watch near the cave mouth, the operation began. John lay on his right side, his head resting on a folded shirt, which in turn rested on Gordon's knees. Sitting back on his heels, Gordon held a flashlight with one hand, focusing its beam on the sluggishly bleeding wound, and with the other held his brother's head steady. Virgil sat cross-legged to the right, gripping John's hands. Jeff Tracy faced Gordon, holding John's legs to prevent an involuntary kick from causing still greater harm. TinTin knelt at John's back, the first aid and sewing kits on the sandy ground at her side.

Taking a deep breath and murmuring a quick_ 'Hail, Mary' _in softly accented French, she began. First, a shot of topical antiseptic spray to disinfect and hopefully numb the area. As wounds went, this was a fortunate one, the jagged sliver of glass having missed the spine on one side, and the carotid and jugular on the other, by scant inches. It had worked itself in pretty deeply by this time, every slightest contraction of John's neck muscles driving the miniature dagger further in. It was now only just visible.

At first, TinTin tried pulling the cut open with her left hand, while using a pair of metal tweezers to grasp the sliver. Three times she tried to extract it, but the tweezers slipped repeatedly on the slick glass, leaving the shard firmly lodged.

John tensed, clamping down so hard on Virgil's hands that he nearly broke them. TinTin dabbed the blood away and tried again, this time seizing the glass by its edges and giving a series of short, gentle tugs, terrified lest it snap off short. John's breathing roughened, but he didn't move, except for his ever tightening grip on Virgil. The new strategy was working, though. The glass was being drawn from the wound like poison.

Long minutes passed in tense silence. Gordon's raised hand began to falter, causing the light to waver and dance. Then Gennine came over and took the light for a bit, allowing Gordon to rest his cramped and bloodless hand. Focusing entirely on her task, TinTin never noticed the change.

About halfway out, the sliver snagged on something; a tendon, maybe, or the silvery elastic sheathe on a bundle of muscle fibers.

Hissing softly, TinTin gave the shard a cautious quarter-turn and another gentle tug. And then, _Dieu Merci_, it came free.

Just a bit under two inches long, with a jagged barb at the end, the bloodied sliver made TinTin sick to look at. Hurriedly, she set it aside, then sprayed the wound inside and out with more antiseptic, and picked up her needle and thread.

Her embroidery mistress at Belle Monde would never have approved of TinTin's stitches, but she got the job done, wincing only a little as she sewed shut the emptied gash. And then it was over. Shivering, TinTin leaned down, gave John a little kiss on the temple, whispered,

"I'm sorry," and went off to be sick.

Jeff, preoccupied with getting his family to safety, then with assisting in John's operation, realized something, suddenly. Someone was missing. Looking around, he got to his feet.

"Where's Scott?"

_The crash site:_

When the rain stopped, later that afternoon,a tall man stepped off his transport and onto the black sand beach. He was bald and narrow-eyed, with an amused, sensual cast to his heavy features that suggested deep, lascivious cruelty. The Hood. His clothing was simple and functional this time, military in cut, rather than opulent. Other than that, little else had changed since his encounter with International Rescue in Macedonia, and subsequent ruin. Except that now, he worked for the General.

One big hand on his holstered pistol, he stepped forward, slanting dark eyes focused greedily on the partly submerged bulk of Thunderbird 2.

"Ahh...," he sighed, taking in the snapped and blackened palm trees, the deeply gouged sand. "At last!"

Futuristictechnology, all but dropped in the palm of his hand. Even derelict, a prize beyond reckoning. He was far too wise to simply stroll up and attempt to board her, however. After all, what else were underlings for?

Beckoning one of his aides with a curt gesture, he indicated the fallen cargo lifter.

"Proceed to the ladder, and into the cockpit," the Hood commanded. "Report what you find there."

His uniformed lackey hesitated, then gave a brief, nervous nod.

"Yes, Sir," he managed, swallowing hard. The fellow picked an unhurried path through dead trees and churned up dunes, looking back many times. At long last, he reached the steel ladder, putting forth a trembling hand while the Hood moistened his lips and waited.

A sudden noise, somewhere between a sharp crack and a buzz, split the rain-washed air. The Hood's unfortunate henchman jerked spasmodically, was hurled fifty feet across the beach and collapsed in a lifeless heap. Electrocuted.

Others ran to the man's assistance, starting CPR as the Hood stroked his chin and thought. Then, turning slightly, he indicated another of his hired killers.

"You, there!" The Hood snapped. "Your turn. Board the craft."

Unsurprisingly, the fellow was reluctant, so the Hood simply forced the matter, using his powers of mind control to march the weeping officer across the beach and over to the ladder. It happened again, and again after that; badly wounding three more men before finally convincing the Hood that Thunderbird 2 was far too well defended to simply hot-wire and fly off with. Needing more information, he got as close as he dared, squinting up at the hull while slowly walking around as much of the great craft as rested on land.

Then, pausing, the Hood began to scowl. Was it his imagination, or was something up there... _moving_...? Many somethings, crawling about on the hull with all the single-minded industry of army ants? Indeed, and incredibly.

The Hood watched, astonished, as what looked like thousands of miniature robots crept over Thunderbird 2, evidently repairing her. Curious, he drew his pistol, firing three quick rounds into the Bird's nose plating. There was a brief, lightning swift flash of red light, and the Hood flung away his pistol, cursing as molten steel and plastic burned his calloused flesh.

So..., he thought, automatically silencing the nerves in his injured hand..., in order to gain access to Thunderbird 2, he would have to capture one of her pilots. A pleasant thought. Or perhaps that damned hacker. An even better one.

Turning back to face his terrified men, the Hood said, a slow smile cutting across his face,

"Comb the island. The International Rescue pilots are on the mountain, hiding themselves. I want them found, and brought back to me, alive. Now, _GO!"_

They went, desperate to escape his presence, one or two of them even plotting to desert. No matter. Gazing over at the densely wooded volcano, the Hood's smile widened.

_'Round two,'_ he thought, tensing pleasantly in anticipation of the game. _'Dig in as deep as you like, little mice. There is no shelter, no stronghold that can save you now.'_


	6. Chapter 6: Storm

_Plans are made, and launched._

6

Scott took the air defenses, while Brains and Kyrano covered the sea. He waited at his post atop the mansion's observation deck, watching silently as a small flotilla of hovercraft roared toward the island. There were armed heli-jets as well, already strafing the beach. Scott continued waiting. Had to time this just right...

One of the heli-jets spotted him, banking around and swooping low, firing all the way. Scott hurled himself to the deck as bullets the size of soda cans gouged great craters in the mansion walls. Then, when the jet's scream had turned earth-shaking loud, he triggered his remote.

The observation deck's ornate light posts suddenly began spraying tall geysers of red foam. The stuff converted into rubbery pellets on contact with air, forming a dense cloud of sticky particles that were sucked into the jet's intakes. All over the island, hundreds of other innocent-looking palm trees, lamp posts and instrument masts did the same thing, irreparably gumming up the engines of each and every fighter jet, forcing the pilots to ditch in the thundering surf around Tracy Island.

Scott got to his feet, absently brushing off tile chips and disintegrating foam pellets as he counted splashes. _8..., 9..., _Now where...? _There! _Number 10 augered in just beyond the sea wall, sending a towering plume of water far into the hard blue sky. All hostile aircraft down and accounted for. Pivoting, Scott ran for the stairs, meaning to meet and subdue the survivors who'd soon be washing ashore.

Meanwhile, Hackenbacker and Kyrano allowed the attacking hovercraft to come insanely close to the island's lone safeharbor before springing an insidious trap of their own.

As jets smashed into the water like a storm of meteors, Brains pressed a hidden button on the pool-side bar that raised the sea chains. All at once, with a thrum of heavy machinery and the bass rumble of titanic gears, a huge net of steel links that lay at the bottom of the harbor was drawn taut, stretching from one rocky promontory to the next, and rising to within three inches of the surface. The speeding hovercraft were caught, flipped end-over-end, and destroyed, their crews having to swim Kyrano's mechanically stirred maelstrom to reach shore...

...Where Mrs. Tracy and Cindy lay in wait. Crouching behind a grassy berm, Grandma told her protégée,

"Wait 'll they stand up, Girl, then fire once over their heads. They'll turn to run, most of 'em, and you can sting 'em at will."

Cindy nodded wordlessly, awed by the sudden, complete destruction of what had looked like an unbeatable invasion force.

_'Mental note,'_ she thought, silently closing part five of the amazing story she never intended to write, _'never, EVER, tackle the Tracys on their home turf!'_

"I wouldn't fire at anyone's front," Victoria continued calmly, taking aim at a fleeing fanny, "Unless they're _particularly_ irksome... (gotcha! That'll learn ya to set foot on my land without an invite!)... 'Cause a peter full of rock salt is just inhuman."

Blasting away with her new best friend, Cindy did her part to bring the gasping, washed-up survivors to their knees. The shotguns thundered and boomed, tossing up fountains of beach sand, and driving all thought of attack from the minds of their unwelcome guests. In less than twenty minutes, the unequal fight was over.

The two ladies were standing guard over a huddled mob of cringing refugees when Scott ran up from the direction of the house, one hand at his sidearm. Spotting Cindy and Mrs. Tracy, he slowed to a walk, shaking his head.

"Grandma!" He said, exasperated. "You were supposed to stay inside!"

Cradling her beloved shotgun, Victoria scowled.

"Scott Aaron Tracy," she snapped fiercely. "I changed your diapers!"

He reddened, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

"Okay, Grandma. Never mind. I'm...,"

"I fed you strained peas, wiped your nose, and turned you over my knee when you got into the sugar bowl!"

_"Grandma!"_

"And I guess I know what I can handle, and what I can't, young man!"

"Yes, Ma'am," he said, one hand over his face.

Cindy pretended to be watching one of the prisoners, who was shifting about in the sand, trying vainly to find a comfortable position for his salt-studded rump.

Having won yet another battle, Mrs. Tracy nodded once, saying sharply,

"Now go get me something to hogtie this bunch with, Scotty. Go on, get!"

Victoria smiled fondly, watching him hurry off.

"That's a fine young man," she told Cindy, conversationally, "reminds me of Grant. But he gets et up with himself, sometimes... all this flying and money, I reckon. Never hurts to take him down a notch or two. Reminds him he's human. Remember that."

Feeling that she'd just been passed the baton, Cindy nodded.

"Yes, Ma'am," she replied, every bit as respectfully as Scott had.

_In the cave hideout:_

_"Where's Scott!"_

The question hung in the dank air like a challenge to combat, one no one seemed willing to take up. Finally, Virgil said slowly,

"He... left something. Where we found the boys. Had to go back for it." Then Virgil looked over at Gordon; for help, it seemed. Gordon struggled manfully to hold up his end, wondering who in heaven Scott was, and just what it was he'd left behind.

"Um..., right. He said he had t' go back because... it was very important, and..." (Sudden inspiration) "...he'd got his fingerprints all over it."

Virgil gave his brother an odd look, one corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

"Wouldn't be a bit surprised," he muttered quietly, adding aloud, "He said he'd meet us at the island, Father. We just...,"

"...Didn' think it worth troublin' you over," Gordon finished.

Jeff Tracy looked at his sons, noticing for the first time how guarded and tense they seemed. How they looked to each other for back up, when all he'd done was ask a simple question.

_'My God,'_ he thought, suddenly very, very tired, _'am I that much of a tyrant?'_

Running a hand through his iron-grey hair, Jeff replied haltingly,

"Well... as long as someone knows where he is. I'm sure he has his reasons."

Just as Jeff had had his, motives that had always seemed vitally important at the time. Making money, founding Tracy Aerospace, building International Rescue... everything, once upon a time, had seemed more important than raising his sons. And now, here he stood, trapped like a coon in a damn cave, enemies everywhere, with a finely tuned strike force instead of a family. And he wondered, was it possible to start over?

He looked at his sons. At Virgil, strong as a bull elk, slow to anger, terrible when roused; pilot, artist and musician. At John, silent, quick-tempered and proud, with so much locked up inside that Jeff had never glimpsed..., might never be allowed to. At Alan, young, confused and angry, unsure where he fit in with everyone but Gordon... The Olympian; Athletic, light-hearted and courageous.

They'd turned out well, as had Scott, and Jeff felt suddenly proud, though perhaps he'd no right to. Aloud, he said only,

"I'm going up to relieve Parker and Penelope at watch. John, whenever you're up to it, see what you can do about reestablishing communications with the island. The rest of you bandage up, and get some rest. We'll need everyone's help to get back to Thunderbird 2, and away from here. Clear?"

"Yes, Sir," returned his sons, even Alan and John, though they seemed hardly able to lift their heads, much less fight.

"Keep up the good work," Jeff told them all, including TinTin and Gennine in his approving glance. Then he wandered off toward the cave mouth, deep in thought.

_Tracy Island:_

Admiral Jessup arrivedseveral hours after the fight, his motorized launch depositing him, together with a cadre of heavily armed sailors, on Tracy Island's lone accessible beach. Jessup was a massive man, bull necked and broad shouldered, with a salt pepper crew cut and close-set eyes.

Leaping from the moving launch before it hit ground, the admiral waded ashore. There he beheld an astonishing sight; some thirty-seven exhausted, beat-down 'terrorists' bound together with tightly knotted nylon cord.

Frowning, Jessup signaled his men forward. He had more important things to worry about than a few pirates, just then. The World Navy was still reeling from their drubbing at the hands of unknown assailants during the rescue of an illicit sub crew. Nothing else of the sort was to be permitted, ever again. And now there were rumors of a secret SST base somewhere neatby.

A small group of people, two heavily armed women and three men, stood waiting for him at the base of the stairs that climbed from beach to pool deck. The island's wealthy owners, presumably.

Jessup strode over. This wasn't the way he preferred to begin an investigation. Reaching the little group at last, he addressed himself to an impatient-looking young playboy with dark hair and blue eyes.

"Jeff Tracy?" He demanded. The young man glanced at his gold Rolex, and cocked an eyebrow.

"Father's away on business, Admiral," he responded curtly. "I'm Scott, his oldest son. I assume you've come for the terrorists? They and their craft are ruining the view."

"Listen," Jessup snapped, striving to regain the upper hand. "I'm sorry about your pirate troubles, but that's a WASP issue. I'm here primarily because an unauthorized SST was spotted heading this way, and I've been empowered to search the island for..."

"Of course," Scott agreed, as smoothly as though he'd absolutely nothing to hide. "Feel free to go where you want. Kyrano, here, will show you around. I'm afraid there isn't much to see, though. One of our smaller island getaways."

Jessup grunted.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Tracy, but _I'll_ be the judge of that."

And then the Admiral and his men proceeded to spread out and search the island, combing the mansion, the beach, the jungle and the harbor, and finding... Nothing. Despite the eerie feeling that just beneath the surface something big and powerful lay coiled in its lair, Jessup found no evidence at all of any super-sonic craft or high tech base. Just some turboprop airplanes, a lot of wrecksand one fancy corporate jet. Nor did the family reveal any secrets when questioned. They and their blandly smiling servant answered politely, and a little pityingly, as though Jessup were a small child trying to wheedle his Christmas presents early. Damn irritating, is what it was.

Finally, unable to come up with any more crannies to search, or questions to ask, the frustrated Admiral had to give up.

So,eight hours later, the suspicious officer packed up thirty-seven squirming prisoners, and returned to his waiting vessel.

Watching from the pool deck, Scott at last allowed himself to relax.

"Thank God...," he muttered. "I thought they'd never leave!"

Added Brains, removing his glasses to rub at his tired eyes,

"C- considering the, ah... the runaround we just g- gave him, I th-think it's safe to s-say that we won't be seeing the World Navy again anytime s-soon."

"I sure hope not. My high-society jackass routine only goes so far." And then, turning more serious, Scott stared out across the harbor. "Damn, that took forever, though. We've got to hurry, Brains."

_The Cave:_

Jeff had everyone up before dawn. All that night, heli-jets had circled the mountain, probing the jungle with powerful sensors, and strafing anything that moved. No one got much rest, and breakfast consisted of a few foil-packed rations, shared out among far too many to do much good. When the preliminaries were out of the way, Jeff pulled Virgil, Gordon, John and Parker aside.

"Here's the plan," he told them, his voice low and serious. "Virgil, I want you and Gordon to check the status of Thunderbird 2. If she's repaired herself, we'll make a run tonight. Boys, be careful. Parker will go along, to provide a little extra fire power..." He paused briefly, looking over at the other man, who stood rocking back and forth on his heels, hands clasped behind his back.

"That I will, Mr. Tracy. Never was one toturn down a morning constitutional; aids the digestion, what?"

Jeff nodded, relieved. "Thank you, Parker. I appreciate your help."

"Just doing me bit for the cause, Sir."

Turning back to his sons, Jeff continued.

"Do _not _attempt to takeher back, by yourselves. If this "Hood" character is everything I've heard, he's too powerful for just the two of you, even with Parker's help. Understood?"

"Yes, Father," Virgil responded reluctantly. Clearly, he held a brighter view of their chances than Jeff did. Didn't see the need to start an argument, though.

"Good boy. Now, John; it's absolutely imperative that we find a way to break through this comm barrier and reach the island. I've collected all the cell phones and electronic devices anyone brought with them, to give you something to work with. It's got to happen, and you're the only one who can do it."

John stared at the ground for a moment, already thinking through the possibilities.

"Cigarette lighter," he said at last, raising his head. "I'll need the striking parts..., plus some wire and a pocket knife."

Virgil provided the lighter, handing it over with a slightly guilty expression. His father and brothers were too glad of the needed equipment to give him a hard time about it, though.

Gordon was dispatched to Alan, who John seemed to think had kept a knife about him, somewhere. Loping across the dimly-lit cave (the torch's batteries were running low), Gordon plopped himself down beside the other boy.

"Hey,' he said, "Wouldn't happen to have a knife, would you?"

"Uh..., yeah, somewhere around here...," Alan gave his pockets a clumsy, one-handed pat-down, finally coming up with the little jackknife. "Here you go. You guys off to check out Thunderbird 2?"

Gordon nodded.

"In a bit. Got some shoppin' around t' do first, for... John." He'd blanked on his older brother's name, again. Fortunately, Alan didn't seem to notice.

"Take care, Man," he said to Gordon, a trifle wistfully. "Wish I was going with you, but...," Grimacing, Alan pointed at the stained cloth sling which held his useless arm.

"Well, we'll be...," he couldn't bring himself to say 'home', not being able to recall living with this sudden family of his, so Gordon took another tack. "I mean..., this 'Brains' fellow everyone's always on about 'll be able t' fix it up. Right?"

"Yeah, sure," Alan sighed. "Kinda sucks to be out of things right now, though. Know what I mean? Anyway, though, just don't do anything dumb, okay?"

Gordon started to protest that he wasn't the sort to leap into things without thinking, but the look on Alan's face cut him short. Yes, he was, apparently, and often enough to have developed quite a reputation.

"Right. See you in a few," he told his dejected companion. "Hold the fort."

Then he gave Gennine a friendly pat, pocketed Alan's knife, and rose to go. John had re-entered the cave, but was pulled aside almost immediately by Penelope. Their quiet discussion looked private, so, resisting the urge to come to John's rescue, Gordon went over to speak with the first person here he'd met; TinTin.

She'd seemed very quiet since the operation.Wan and distracted. Looking up at his approach, the girl came to meet him, shaking like an abandoned kitten. Gordon gave her an awkward hug, altogether failing to think of anything clever to say. Biting her lip, she buried her face against his shoulder and whispered,

"Don't tell anyone, please... but I can feel him, Gordon. He's..., he's been looking for us. All night long, this awful, cold, _polluted_ ...thing... has been crawling, trying to find a way in."

He didn't really understand, she knew that. But he believed her, and he didn't hate her for the weird senses, the power, she seemed to possess. And maybe that was all that mattered.

"We're goin' out to deal with him, Angel," Gordon told her, trying to bring comfort. "Not much longer to go."

_"Gordon!"_ Somebody called, quiet and urgent. He looked around, spotted Virgil gesturing from further up the passage.

"Right. I'm off, then."

She broke away, hiccuping a little.

"You won't tell?"

"Not a word. Promise."

"D'accord. Be careful. He is more evil than I know how to tell."

"Well..., no match for me on little breakfast an' less coffee, I'm thinkin'."

Playfully mussing her hair, Gordon joined Virgil and Parker, accepted a very large, very powerful rifle, and left the cave.

_Tracy Island:_

Unfolding a big chart, Scott spread it out on his father's desk and began plotting positions and times; his own, and Thunderbird 2's.

"Right, then," he muttered, while Brains tinkered with the comm, "Starting points, here and here... Last verified contact was... _here," _He'd made several marks on the chart, one of them just over halfway to the island. "...around 0715. That would have put me... about there." Fishing through one of the desk's capacious drawers, Scott fetched out a straightedge, and drew two long connecting lines. The angles differed, for he'd been flying in from San Francisco rather than the Mojave Desert, but the intended destination had been the same, allowing him to plot Thunderbird 2's probable flight path. Taking up a compass, he planted it on 2's last known position and drew a series of concentric circles.

"Okay..., gotta assume the attacks were coordinated, that Thunderbird 2 got hit right around the same time as 5 did...," Scott drummed his fingers on the desktop. It was getting late, and thoughts were coming hard.

"Okay, Virge... So, you're hit, you're going down. What d' you do? No comm, probably no instruments...," he rubbed at the back of his neck, eyes on the chart, trying to think like Virgil, or Grandad.

"Time, speed and distance. You figure out where you are and hunt for the nearest patch of real estate, which would be..." Scott trailed a finger along the innermost circle, hunting. "... small and uninhabited, or somebody would have reported the crash."

The alternative possibility, that his brother hadn't made it to land, wasn't allowable. Scott dismissed it immediately.

"Brains," he said aloud, "pull up whatever you can find on the following islands: San Mateo, San Marco, San Andreas and Santa Maria. And get Thunderbird 1 ready to go."

Concerned, Hackenbacker turned his squeaky rolling chair around to face the younger man.

"Ah..., w-without cover, S-Scott, how can you launch? You'll, ah... you'll be s- spotted at once."

Scott shook his head, replying grimly,

"Not if I fly low... stay under the radar. Did it before, in a fighter jet, Brains. I can do it in Thunderbird 1."

"Scott," Brains insisted, attempting to reason with him, "One rogue wave w- would..."

"Uh-uh," the dark-haired pilot grunted, "I don't want to hear about rogue waves. No can'ts, no maybes, no don'ts. I want information on those islands, I want Thunderbird 1 prepped for launch, and I want an extraction plan. Understood?"

Brains couldn't help but smile.

"F.A.B., Y-you sound just like, ah... like your f- father."

"Yeah, well..." Scott clapped a hand to Brains' thin shoulder. "Don't get used to it. By this time tomorrow, you'll be hearing the real thing. Come on, I plan to launch by morning, and that means another all-nighter."

"Oh, boy," Brains sighed, ringing for more coffee. "I l-live for this."

"You and me both, Buddy..." Scott replied, staring at the chart. "You and me both."


	7. Chapter 7: Extraction

A scouting mission, it was to have been.

_'Head for the beach', _his father had told them, _'Get close enough for a look at Thunderbird 2, then come back and report.' _Simple... and impossible, if it meant that Virgil had to leave 2 in the hands of the Hood any longer than absolutely necessary.

He, Gordon and Parker had halted just within the cave mouth, while an armed heli-jet roared by, somewhere above the dense jungle canopy. It belted out the usual harsh threats and demands for surrender, punctuated by several hundred rounds of automatic gunfire. Unable to find the Thunderbird pilots directly, the Hood had resorted to messier, less sophisticated methods, like shooting up anything that moved.

Birds and tree shrews shrieked and fled, while shredded foliage, tattered carrion and other, less identifiable bits rained down upon the jungle floor. Pushing his younger brother further inside the sheltering cave, Virgil scowled, his warm brown eyes going suddenly hard.

"Getting sick and damn tired of that," he muttered darkly. And then, shooting a quick glance at Gordon and Parker, "...think maybe it's about time we showed them just who the hell it is they're hunting."

The other two nodded agreement, no more willing to play possum than the frustrated pilot. When the jet was gone, they set off together through the bullet-scarred trees and hard green light, intending to secure Thunderbird 2 and get the rest of the family to safety.

Meanwhile, deeper in the cave, John Tracy had begun disassembling the little pile of cell phones, translator, radios and PDAs, delicately pulling their components apart with a large sewing needle and a jack knife. Still aching and worn from his 'surgery', he fumbled a bit more than usual, bending close over his work in the flashlight's fading gleam. More distractingly still, a heli-jet continually circled the mountain peak, broadcasting loud, demoralizing messages.

_"...cannot hope to escape, or survive! Your only chance is surrender. Mercy will be shown to any who are wise enough to break ranks and turn themselves in. Those who choose to resist will be hunted down and slain! Attention, International Rescue! You cannot hope to..." _

And so on, and so forth, ad nauseum, in the Hood's taunting, pre-recorded voice.

About the third time this happened, John, never once looking up from his work, lofted a defiant middle finger at the cave roof, giving it a very rude twisting motion as he did so.

"Cool!" Alan breathed, imitating the gesture. Shocked, his mother slapped the boy's hand down. She'd been occupying herself with mentally furnishing the cavern for optimum worker productivity, (not much different from planning an office complex, really) but she'd zeroed right in the moment Alan lifted that impudent finger.

_"Ow...! _Mom! Hello? Broken collar bone, remember!" And he pointed indignantly at his mud-spattered sling, expecting instant capitulation, and apologies.

But Gennine, for once, stood her ground.

"Alan Tracy," she began in a low, shaky voice, shoving a lock of grubby blonde hair behind her right ear, "we may be trapped underground, with people shooting and nothing to eat, but we will NOT descend into savagery! _Mind... your... manners!"_

"But, _Mom...!"_

"Listen to your mother," Jeff Tracy snapped, returning from the cave mouth. He was an older man, but still fit, with a full head of grey hair, and a handsome face lined by many long years of sorrow and stress.

"Yes, Sir," the boy responded promptly. And then, more grudgingly, "...Sorry, Mom."

14-year-old Alan might give his mother a hard time, but he _never _tried pulling those stunts with Jeff. Her ex-husband could command his sons' respect with a cold word, or a single, withering glance. Uncertain whether to be offended or grateful, Gennine settled for a dignified nod. A little stiff, perhaps, but well meant. Jeff hardly seemed to notice, preoccupied as he was with getting his family off this wretched island alive. (San Mateo, according to Virgil)

With his youngest son properly quelled, the elder Tracy turned his attention to John, now fitting cannibalized electronics together.

"Son, I don't mean to rush you, but we've got to make contact with Base. Even with Thunderbird 2 up and running again, we'll need..."

"Hour and a half," John interrupted his father, still not bothering to look up. "Hour and twenty to set up the transmitter, ten minutes to get through the jamming and find a clear frequency. Come back at 7:40. Anything else 'll just slow me down."

Jeff's mouth dropped open, then shut again with a nearly audible snap. A month ago he'd have called the boy's response rankest insubordination. Now, though... Well, maybe John was a bit like Brains; too focused and intent on the task at hand for conversational niceties. At any rate, needing genius more than obedience, Jeff let the incident pass with a quiet grunt instead of losing his temper.

"Right. Call me when you're ready," he told his ice-blond second son, striding off to check on Lady Penelope.

Genuinely shocked, Gennine and Alan stared after him for a bit, then back at each other. Was it possible that the 'commander in chief' was becoming a father?

_Elsewhere:_

Back on Tracy Island, the necessary information had been uploaded into Thunderbird 1's computer. The reactors and engines were fully primed and ready to go. All the big, silver Bird needed now was her pilot, who was having more trouble than expected saying goodbye to friends and family. They stood together on the office balcony, getting a little fresh air after a very long, very busy night.

Giving his strong-willed grandmother a swift peck on the cheek (she was full of contradictory advice, as usual), and shaking the hands of Hackenbacker and Kyrano, Scott Tracy turned to face Cindy. The others stepped discreetly inside, giving them a bit of privacy. Scott started to kiss her, but Cindy stopped him with a lifted hand and a worried frown.

"It's dangerous, isn't it... what you're planning to do?" She demanded, dark eyes narrowing.

"Well... no," he hedged, uncomfortably. "Not much; I mean... not more than other things I've done... once or twice, before."

"Scott, you're not exactly boosting my confidence, here," Cindy informed him, hugging herself. "Bullet statements, Mister: scale of one to ten... ten's the worst... _how bad?"_

The handsome pilot sighed gustily, rubbing at the back of his neck. He didn't want to scare her, but...

"Um... eight, maybe. Eight and a half. Almost nine, but definitely not ten."

"Well, great," she replied, giving him one of those crystal- brittle false smiles of hers. "That's a relief! Nothing to worry about, if we haven't reached ten! What've you got to do to rate a ten, by the way? Defuse an ICBM in mid-air while riding it down to ground zero?"

He laughed, pulled the fretting woman into his arms for a hug, and patted her slim back, saying,

"Don't know; haven't tried that one, yet. That might actually be an eleven. But don't..."

She pulled suddenly away, snapping fiercely,

"Don't you _dare _tell me not to worry, Scott Tracy! Don't say it! I'll worry if I damn well want to! And you're coming back safe! You _have_ to, because we haven't gotten a chance to do anything, yet, and if you don't come back, I'll have to spend the rest of my life wondering!"

Standing there grinning at her in the rosy light of an island dawn, Scott was so incredibly priceless, so careless of his own well-being, that he just about broke her heart.

"Um... I don't know, Cin... That's a lot of pressure," he chuckled softly. "What if I get back, give it the ol' college try, and fail to meet expectations? There goes my fitness report."

She punched him in the arm. Hard.

"Then you'll just have to try again, and _again_... until you get it right. So, you've _got _to come back. I'm serious!" Never again did she mean to lose anyone as close to her as Scott had become. She couldn't stand it. Not again.

Coming to attention, he saluted sharply, violet-blue eyes filled with laughter, and something else.

"Yes, _Ma'am!_ Roger that." Then he really did kiss her, well enough to leave her just as wobbly, warm and confused as the first time. He had a definite, unfair advantage in the argument-winning department, dammit.

Scott strode off after a bit, looking remarkably pleased with himself, and Cindy learned the bitterness of being left behind to worry, watch and wait. Or, in her case, kick things and curse.


	8. Chapter 8: The Search

Virgil and the others had removed and hidden anything colorful or shiny, and daubed their clothing and flesh with dark mud. They proceeded cautiously, agreeing on an easily visible landmark, then picking slow, individual paths to the goal, repeating the process each time they reunited. In this way, Virgil hoped to avoid detection by the Hood's jets and questing henchmen. With the sun now up, their body temperature didn't stand out particularly, scratching one small worry off a list as long as Marley's chains. But Virgil refused to let himself dwell on all the things that could go wrong. Too dangerous. Instead, calmly as though he were back in the Tetons, stalking elk, he inched slowly, deliberately forward.

Parker (who, if he'd awakened one day to find himself roasting at the end of a pitch-fork, would have taken over management and reopened the place as a casino and day-spa) slipped like a greying shadow from rubber tree, to outcrop, to crevice. No worries there.

Gordon was the one in trouble. Not that he was noisy, or anything. Just concerned. While he alternately slid, crawled and squirmed through the teeming undergrowth, Gordon struggled to keep his rifle out of the mud and fought the urgent need to hurry. The girl, TinTin, needed help. She was single-handedly holding off some sort of invisible attack, and the pain was going to kill her, if someone didn't interfere, which meant stopping this 'Hood', by any means necessary. He might not understand everything that was going on, but Gordon knew what he had to do.

Rushing could get him caught, though. It was important to be stealthy, to pay attention. A strange memory came to him, then, and vanished just as quickly. Suddenly suspicious, he stopped and turned around, to find a dark figure standing just behind him, a piece of gleaming wire stretched between tensely clenched fists.

_At the cave:_

John had finished his creation, mostly. Looked less like a comm than a kid's fourth grade science project, but it ought to work, once the last few clumsily soldered connections firmed up. Spread about him on the sandy floor, the jury-rigged transmitter used parts from every available electronic device and a couple of foil ration packs to create and send a weak signal._ Too _weak, actually, to cut much beyond the jamming, but that wasn't his intent. All he needed to do was make contact.

If his last command had gotten through... if she'd had time enough to act on it...

John set the dial for a certain very low frequency channel, punched in a coded message, then took a deep breath, and hit the send button. His father had asked to be informed when John finished work, but this was too important, too private, for witnesses. If he got a reply, all would be well. If not, then a part of him had died, too. Sitting back on his heels, John counted backward from five, and waited.

The response was breathtakingly swift, a stream of encrypted q-bits that TinTin's little translator nearly turned itself inside out decoding.

_"John Tracy contact established. System status: SETI network penetrated. New York Stock Exchange, WNN, CERN, MIT and Fermilab acquired. Universities of Hawaii, Southern California, South Florida, Michigan and Columbia acquired. Awaiting next command."_

John smiled a little, feeling a vast, frigid glacier rumble off of his chest and out into the void. She'd made it to safety. Uploading her basic intelligence as an irresistible virus, his computer had commandeered first SETI, then every other large mainframe John's emergency transfer protocol had given her access to.

"Hello there," he typed back, being uncharacteristically foolish.

_"Last John Tracy command not understood. Please re-enter."_ Then, _"Status inquiry John Tracy. Initiating Scan. Unable to scan. Please submit status report."_

Of course. Without her orbiting satellite 'body', she was forced to adapt herself to the limitations of the newly enslaved networks. She could "hear", but not see or scan him. Evidently, a troubling state of affairs.

"Minor structural damage," John reported, fighting the urge to scratch at his burning stitches. "Repairs in progress." Now, to business.

"Continue acquiring mainframes," he instructed. "Initiate web search. Track and penetrate any computer network linked to..." (a long list followed, of dummy accounts and web sites previously used by the Hood) "...Initiate dictionary attack on the passwords, and launch email assault. Bring them down."

_"Enter email selection,"_ the computer prompted.

John considered. The most obnoxious, byte-consuming and worm-ridden weapon in his arsenal was...

"Launch exploding dog food warnings. Three-hundred, thirty-three thousand per second." (His favorite- he'd authored it only a month ago; some crap about methanogenic bacteria in tinned, algae-based pet food.)

_"Target systems located."_ She was still fast, almost unbelievably so. _"Passwords acquired. Attack initiated."_

Thought John, _'Hi, there. Remember me?'_

_"Target systems have crashed,"_ she reported blandly. _"Next command, John Tracy?"_

"Continue harassment of linked systems," he responded. "Boost this signal and contact Island Base."

John turned his head then, wincing just a bit as the stitches pulled.

"Father..."

_At the staging area:_

The young officer came slowly forward, fear and trepidation plain in every hesitant step and darting, backward glance. Clearly, he'd drawn the short straw. Entering a private office in the Hood's luxurious personal launch, he paused for a long, nervous moment before approaching the big desk.

"C- commander...? Sir...?" The big, bald man sat leaning back in his padded seat, his face perfectly blank, but for a slight upward twist to his full lips. He was breathing, at least, though the officer didn't know whether to be relieved about that, or not. Dead, the Hood was far less dangerous. Probably.

"Sir...?" he tried again, scraping bottom for a last dab of courage. "The computer system has crashed, Sir. We've lost scanning, and the comm shield's come down. Orders, Commander?"

But the Hood was elsewhere, pursuing a far more important, more intriguing situation. That International Rescue's devious programer had struck again, he knew. What mattered more was how the little bastard had gained the time and safety to do it. Someone was sheltering him, all of them, from the Hood's crushing psionic assault; someone who felt interestingly _familiar._ This opponent, powerful, yet shockingly untutored, was fighting the Hood, meeting his every attack with a clumsy parry that somehow protected the little minds huddling beneath.

_'Who are you?' _he demanded, forming the thought into a white-hot fiery lash, as sweat poured from his body and his head began to throb. _'WHO?'_

TinTin whimpered. Biting her already torn and bleeding lip, she hid her face against Alan's good shoulder, while Gennine fumbled worriedly for more aspirin. She felt, roughly, as though she stood holding a deadly weight, its underside coated with barbed wire and broken glass, off the heads of her oblivious loved ones. She was so tired, and it hurt so much... and every time the weight grew a questing spear point, she had to smash it back before its fiery tip reached John, or Alan, or (and this part was harder, for they were further away) Gordon and Virgil... Or her.

"Please hurry..." she whispered, accepting the Tylenol to comfort Gennine. "He's getting closer."

Thinking the girl was delirious, Alan ignored the pain from his shoulder and began rocking her back and forth a bit, saying,

"It's okay, TinTin, I'm here. No one's gonna get you. We'll be home soon, and everything 'll be alright. I promise."

_Thunderbird 1:_

Brains had been right about one thing. Rogue waves, had he encountered any, would have swatted Thunderbird 1 out of the air like a mayfly. A freighter wouldn't have been much fun, either. Fortunately, the Pacific was living up to its name, today, and the area was well off the major sea lanes.

Scott held her about twenty-five feet from the ocean's surface, rocketing across at mach one. Great, long fan tails of water spumed along his wake, followed by a massive, fish-pulping shock wave. The familiar, electric-jolt thrill of flight was there, communicated through the titan-roar of his engines, and his own insane, breakneck speed. He'd actually had to shut down the navigational alert system, only able to tolerate so many repetitions of:

_"Low altitude warning! Crash imminent! Please climb immediately to a height of 30,000 feet and engage auto pilot! Low altitude warning!"_

He had more important things to do just then than listen to 'Bitching Betty', like avoid augering into the ocean, or ending up as a greasy smear on the side of a mountain. He'd done something like this before, flying an F-21 way below radar to give the US Air Force's regards to a nest of savage terrorists, but Thunderbird 1 handled differently. At this altitude, she wanted to roll. Turbulence off the wave crests, maybe. Whatever, it certainly kept life interesting.

The closest island, Santa Maria, was due to come into view soon. It was rocky, according to Brain's uploaded information, surrounded by vicious whirlpools and tall lava outcrops. Odysseus would have felt right at home.

Cursing the necessity, Scott cut his airspeed a bit, as a tormented coastline topped the blue-green, surging horizon. Without comm, he had no choice but to do a few fly-bys, look for Thunderbird 2, and hope that someone on the island (if this was the right one) could flash him a message. Mirrors might be old fashioned, but they worked, and each of the Thunderbird pilots carried one; even Alan.

"C'mon, Virge," he muttered softly, visually scanning the rocky shore and bird-spattered cliffs. "Make me an offer."


	9. Chapter 9: Recon

Immediately recognizing the black body suit, long braid and battered face, Gordon blurted out,

"You're safe!"

That stopped the woman in her tracks. Seeming surprised, then amused, she said, in a voice rather husky for a female,

"You don't remember me... do you?" The wire disappeared into a vest pocket.

"You... were on the plane with us, when we crashed," Gordon hazarded, uncertain how much he could safely discuss. "They left you on the beach, f'r your friends to find."

She nodded, coming forward once again.

"I thought it was something like that. And you? What are you up to, all alone in the jungle, with a great, big rifle... and covered in mud." Her tone was weirdly caressing, her eyes as golden and hard as a lion's.

It seemed wiser just then not to mention the others. Taking a small, involuntary step backward, Gordon said,

"Just... havin' a bit of a look about."

The back of his left foot struck something. Log or tree stump, probably, but he couldn't tell how big it was, and didn't want to take his attention off the woman. Instead, he stopped backing. "Scouting the area."

She smiled.

"Makes sense. For your 'International Rescue' friends, I expect? You put a great deal of faith in them, all things considered."

She halted about a foot in front of him, putting forth a slow, languid hand.

"What's that s'pposed to mean," Gordon demanded, twisting away from her touch.

"Well..." she purred softly, still giving him that direct, hard stare, "surely you realize what a liability you are to them? You're the reason they're in this fix, Pet. You're famous. An Olympic swimmer. Pictures literally everywhere. And someone tracked you right to them, then blasted the lot of you out of the sky. Pity."

Stunned, Gordon failed to dodge her next reach. She didn't precisely attack, though. Just placed a warm hand on his chest, beside the rifle sling. Continuing, she said,

"You'll manage to escape this island, no doubt... get back to your little base, wherever it is... and then, my dear, you'll be a prisoner, for the rest of your life. Can't very well let you go gadding about in public anymore, can they?"

She was very close now, and her hand had somehow slipped inside his shirt and started to stroke downward. All at once, there were more alarms going off in his head than there had been in the cockpit of the crashing plane. Confused, and unable to retreat, he tried to think of something to say in his new friends' defense.

"They wouldn' do that," he said at last, growing more distracted by the moment.

"Wouldn't they? The same lot who'd leave an unconscious woman behind to die? Think again, Pet. Once they've got you back at their base, you'll never see home again. Of course... you could come with me, instead."

Using her voice and eyes as weapons, the woman wove lies, like a snake swaying before a bird.

"I have my own way off this unpleasant bit of real estate, Dear. Plan B. Always a wise investment. Come with me, and I'll see to it that they can't get hold of you, ever again. You'll be safe from everyone... except me, that is."

TinTin. He abruptly recalled her face and voice, comparing her to the dangerous reptile now wrapping its coils about him while he just stood there, like an idiot. All at once clear-headed as a magistrate, he seized the woman's arm and pushed her away, at the same time un-slinging his rifle.

"Thanks just th' same," he told her, moving aside, "But I b'lieve I'll take my chances. I'm glad you're alright, Miss..."

"Berghofer, usually. Tania Berghofer." She looked up then, at the sudden clattering roar of an approaching heli-jet. Glancing back at Gordon, Tania added playfully. "No worries. We'll run into each other again, sometime, Gordon Tracy. I guarantee it."

As she vanished into the jungle, Gordon muttered,

"Thanks f'r the warnin'," and turned to seek cover. A sudden hand shot out and hauled him into a nearby Ti thicket. Virgil, with Parker, both looking deeply concerned.

Feeling strangely embarrassed, Gordon ventured,

"How much of that did you...?"

"Enough," the brown-haired pilot replied tersely. "You okay?"

Gordon nodded, looking down. All three of them stood still and silent as the heli-jet blasted past, savaging the vine-draped forest with bullets and bellowed commands. When it was safe to move and speak again, Parker gave Virgil a brief, apologetic head bob.

"Sorry abou' that, Guvnor," he said. "Meant t' shot th' little baggage, I did, but she kept 'im between us th' 'ole time, an' I couldn' 'elp noticin' th' knife she 'ad in 'er other 'and. Made th' shot a bit too tricky, if y' take my meanin', Sir."

"Virgil," the pilot replied with a faint smile. "I'm only 'Sir' if you're trying to sell me something. And I couldn't get a clear shot, either, Parker. Important thing is, he's safe."

Turning back to his brother, Virgil gave the downcast young man a long, searching look.

"She was lying," he said at last, very firmly. "Everything that bitch said, right from 'hello', was a lie, Gordon. You're _not_ going to be a prisoner. I give you my word. We'll figure something out, but you're not going to be trapped on the island. I swear it."

When his younger brother didn't reply, Virgil tried another tack.

"Gordon, look at me," he said, a worried frown creasing his forehead. "Do you... do you know who I am?"

Gordon nodded quietly.

"Virgil Tracy," he said, quoting back what TinTin had placed in his head.

"Right... How 'bout this; do you _remember_ me? Past yesterday morning, I mean?"

Gordon's hazel eyes held nothing but confusion, and, worse, the first stirrings of mistrust.

_'Damn that woman! Should've thrown her out the hatch when we had the chance!'_ He tried again, desperately needing to win back his young co-pilot's faith.

"I'm your brother. I was there when you were born, Gordon. Mom let me be the first to hold you, so I wouldn't be jealous." Gesturing at the hawk-nosed older man beside them, Virgil added, "This is Aloysius Parker, a good friend."

Parker smiled suddenly, clearly pleased, and put in his own two bits' worth.

"It were th' drug, Mate, as wiped yer disk," he affirmed. "An' when it clears outta yer system, I'd wager y'll remember more. But I'll tell y' in the meanwhile, yer brother wouldn' lie t' you, nor t' anyone else, neither."

"We need your help, Gordon," Virgil finished urgently, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. "We can't do this without you."

Slowly, Gordon nodded. Although Virgil was confused about the 'mum' thing (he had to be), he clearly meant every word he'd said.

"Right, then," Gordon replied, more confidently than he felt. "Let's go."

_The Cave:_

"Brains!" Jeff called, when the PDA's screen cleared a bit.

"M-Mr. Tracy!" The engineer cried incredulously. "Th- thank Heaven! Hold the, ah... the line, Sir and I'll g- get a fix on your, ah... your location."

Jeff nodded, feeling some of the terrible pressure of the last two days begin to ease.

"Scott?" He inquired, as Hackenbacker clicked busily away at an invisible keyboard.

"H- he's already l- launched, Mr. Tracy. He's, ah... he's island- hopping, flying under the r- radar. S- searching the probable c- crash zone for, ah... for Thunderbird 2."

"That's my boy," Jeff said proudly. Scott had never been content to wait. He went out and made things happen... for which, time and time again, Jeff had chastised him sternly, in front of his brothers. Well... people could change, couldn't they? When given a big, painful wake-up call?

A startled comment from Hackenbacker interrupted his thoughts.

"Mr. T- Tracy, I'm g- getting another signal. I d- don't understand h-how, but it looks like, ah... like Thunderbird 5 is b- back online! F-from the New York Stock Exchange, of all places."

The elder Tracy looked over at John, still busy with his miraculous homemade comm.

"We're a resourceful bunch, Brains. All of us. Now, let's wrap this up. I'm ready to go home."


	10. Chapter 10: Counterattack

Peering down at the shore from the relative safety of a high overhang, Virgil took in his Bird's condition. She was still partly submerged, her tail section and engines awash in long, rolling breakers, nose and main body projecting out of the water and onto land at about a twenty-five degree angle. The rents in her dark green hull had healed up. The long burn scars were gone, as well. The microbots had done their job, defending and repairing his girl; now it was time for him to do his. It was time to take her back.

Watching as fifty or so heavily-armed men worked frantically to remove the tangle of burnt palm trees and broken coral she'd come to rest on, Virgil reached a decision.

"Here's the plan," he told the others. "Parker and I will separate and set up a cross fire from the bluffs. We'll start a ruckus, and keep the crowd, there, entertained, while you make your way to the water, Gordon. Keep under cover as much as possible, Kiddo, then swim to the rear hatch." He provided far more detail and instruction than usual, trying to anticipate any problems that might arise. "There's a palm-print scanner on the left side, about chest high. Put your hand on it. She'll run a genetic scan, then let you in."

The Birds' defenses had been upgraded considerably, since Macedonia, and after all this, Brains would probably come up with even tighter, more baffling security systems. But, for right now, all Gordon had to deal with was the scanner, and a few thousand rabid microbots.

"When you get inside, head for the cockpit, run a systems check, and then trigger the startup procedure. After that, stand by on the guns. Parker and I are gonna need backup, pretty damn quick. Won't take the rent-a-thugs very long to figure out there's only two of us. Think you can handle it?"

Gordon's head was hurting again, but he nodded anyway.

"Swim, scanner, cockpit, guns," he repeated, ticking the steps off on his fingers. "Not forgotten anythin', have I?"

"Run systems check and startup," Virgil responded patiently. "_After_ you get to the cockpit, and _before_ you start shooting. Straight?"

"Got it." More or less.

And then it was time to go. Virgil and Parker took different routes through the jungle, worming their way along the soggy, bug-and-leaf covered ground till they reached decent sniping perches. Not directly opposite each other. No sense blundering into a teammate's line of fire, after all. Instead, about thirty minutes after they'd parted company, a quick flash from Parker's watch face indicated he'd settled into place about three-hundred yards further along the curving bluff. Virgil mirrored a fast response, confirming that all was set. Between the two of them, they commanded a broad swathe of windy beach.

Gordon crouched among the sun-dappled rocks and palm trees at the inner edge of the strand, Thunderbird 2's beached-whale bulk just barely visible to his right. About sixty meters to the water, he figured, utterly without cover until he reached the pounding ocean. Even then, a machine gun didn't have to target him directly to chew him up into bloody chum. Best avoid being seen in the first place.

Setting the rifle carefully aside, Gordon stripped to his shorts and waited for the signal. Sort of like a swim meet... one where the crowd was armed and hostile, he had to sprint to the water in his underwear, and the goal was a downedjet instead of a medal.

Well, his coach always said that a winner took the situation and made it work for him, though what McMahon would have to say about this particular race...

Sudden, booming gunfire sent the Hood's men diving for cover, screaming and pointing in a hundred directions as they tried to locate the snipers. An officer dove in among the charred palms and began shouting into a satellite phone, frantically calling down air cover. Further up the mountainside, a heli-jet executed a swift, banking turn, cutting short the search to return to the Hood's staging area. Just for a moment, Gordon hesitated, stunned by the noise and confusion. Then he remembered his instructions, crossed himself, and dashed for the beach at a wild, broken run. A few bullets burned past him like hornets, kicking up great black fountains of sand and broken shell.

Once, on a dare, he'd leapt across a neighborhood alley from one third storey roof top to another. About halfway along, he'd started to drop, and for a heart-jolting moment it had looked like he'd fall short, smashing like an egg on the pavement below. Exactly the same terrified, stomach-wrenching coldness seized him now. Couldn't do anything then but reach; couldn't do anything now but run, and pray he got to the ocean before an errant slug got to him.

At last he hit the water. Great, foaming breakers, swirling with sand and bits of slimy green stuff, took hold immediately and dragged Gordon into the most welcome undertow he'd ever encountered. Just at the moment he didn't care where the current was headed; deposit him in bloody Greenland, if it felt like... All he wanted was to get deeper, as quickly as possible.

He swam far into the water using a modified dolphin kick, then surfaced for air, got his bearings, and dove again. Visibility was terrible, but it didn't matter; here he was capable, and completely at home. Avoiding jagged spurs of broken coral, and a few twisted shards of hull plating, Gordon shot through clouds of darting fish, headed for Thunderbird 2.

_The staging area:_

The Hood was, indeed, drawing closer. Excited, he could feel his foe's strength fading, feel the other's shield beginning to crack like brittle glass. Soon, very soon, he'd be through, and this upstart's mind would be his. Already a link of sorts existed between them, a bond through which the other's pain and growing terror came to him, sweet as honeyed perfume.

More, the sense of familiarity had grown stronger. Almost, he caught a hint of his weak and groveling brother... but he'd thought Kyrano long dead, together with the woman and child. If things were other, if the despised thief and liar had somehow survived, creeping to International Rescue for shelter, then all the power of hell itself could not snatch Kyrano from his wrath. The Hood would hunt him, and any who dared aid him, to the grave and beyond.

Determined to learn the truth, the Hood pressed his attack, wasting badly needed strength to crush his opponent's faltering will.

In the cavern, TinTin grew terribly still, the little whimpering noise she'd been making choked off like she'd been clubbed. All at once, she slumped against the rock wall between Alan and Gennine, limp as a corpse.

_"John!" _Alan called out, terrified she'd had an aneurism, or something.

John rose from his seat by the comm set, and strode over. Crouching down before the apparently lifeless girl, he put a hand out and lifted her face.

"TinTin?"

Her eyes shot open suddenly, rose to meet his. And they were yellow, glowing with a cold, merciless power that ripped through him like a dagger. John went suddenly as stiff as the girl, while something crossed the space between them, reaching for him.

_The Staging area:_

His worst failing- the tendency to play with his victims like a cat, pinning his defenseless prey to the ground with a taloned paw while batting at it with the other. It betrayed him now. Instead of finishing the two he held in his grip, the Hood toyed with them, attempting at the same time to reach past and seize the others. Then gunfire erupted just outside of his launch, shattering the Hood's concentration and breaking his tenuous grip on TinTin and John.

The Hood lunged like a wild animal, nearly falling over the desk in his blind, towering rage.

_"NO!" _He screamed aloud, spitting vengeful hate at Kyrano, and all who dared befriend him. _"You shall not escape me!"_

Whoever had caused the disastrous distraction, _whoever had robbed the Hood of his rightful prey_, was about to pay with far more than just their lives.


	11. Chapter 11: Reinforcement

The closer to shore, the more turbulent the water. It took a bit of doing, between the powerful undertow and monstrous surf, to reach Thunderbird 2. To do it unscathed, while heli-jets strafed the cliff side and automatic gunfire peppered the water, was a testament to the brilliance of Brains' scenario training. Gordon's memory might have been faulty, but there wasn't a thing wrong with his hammered-in reflexes.

The final third of the swim he finished without surfacing for air, coming up at last just below the rear crew hatch Virgil had mentioned. For the first time since his mad dash began, he was out of the line of fire, shielded from view by the giant green cargo lifter.

Shaking with the need for haste, Gordon scrambled up a small cliff of shattered coral to reach the exposed hatch. There beside it was the palm scanner, exactly as Virgil had described. Gordon was a little surprised, when he put a hand to the scanning plate, to see blood. Startled, he pulled it back, and looked himself over. There was still more blood on his legs and feet, and he realized he'd scraped himself climbing, and never even felt it. Could've been a lot worse, he supposed, and still might be, if he didn't hurry.

He was reaching for the scanning plate again, when he spotted the tiny metal crab-things. They came swarming over the hull in waves, their many legs tipped with miniature lasers, pliers and cutting tools, their metallic shells armed with powerful scanning devices. The microbots. They were deeply, scarily, alien-looking, and had Gordon not known what they were, he'd have thrown himself back into the surf. Instead, he held very still, waiting tensely while a hundred lines of brilliant red light tracked along his body from dripping auburn hair to scraped-up feet. A slight tingling sensation accompanied the scan, with here and there a deeper burn as his cuts were seared closed. Advanced aircraft weren't the only things they were capable of repairing, it seemed.

Seconds later, the microbots returned to their seams and crevices. Thunderbird 2's rear hatch popped open, seemingly of itself, and Gordon hurled himself within, acutely aware of a sudden, terrible silence. The gunfire had ceased.

_The Beach:_

The Hood burst from his landing craft, his intense fury causing the very air around him to ripple as it would have over asphalt on a particularly hot day. Though it hurt to do so, drained as he was, the Hood put forth his mind and searched the surrounding bluffs for the source of the deadly accurate sniping, automatically deflecting any bullets that came his way. _There_..., and again..., _there! _Two of them, thinking themselves well-hid by a few feet of paltry rock. Though he'd suffer for it mightily later, the Hood dredged up his last strength and used telekinesis to pluck the two gunmen off the cliff.

_Cliffside:_

Things had been going well. Shooting with robotic precision and surprising mercy, Virgil had kept the Hood's henchmen cowering helplessly behind their own amphibious equipment and Thunderbird 2's debris pile. Anyone brassy enough to stick his head up, got his hair parted. Any and all weapons received immediate, preferential service. The message, _'Aim this way, and they'll be calling you "Stubby" for the rest of your life', _was received and understood. He saw no more gun barrels. Had their situations been reversed, the pinned gunmen would not have been as kind, and Virgil knew it, but only the defense of his loved ones warranted killing, and Gordon had already reached the ocean. All he and Parker had to do now was stay out of the heli-jet's sights, and...

Then, so suddenly and roughly that Virgil lost his grip on the rifle, he was torn from his shelter and jerked high into the sky. He wasn't afraid of heights, but hanging unsupported in midair was a new and terrifying sensation. He saw Parker, jerking and flailing about a hundred feet away, as though trying to run through the air. Then, they were hurled at each other like a couple of cannonballs, colliding with such bone-crushing force that Virgil lost consciousness, briefly. Falling woke him up again; that sick, bottom-dropping-out sensation of hearing the climbing rope snap, and hurtling backward through implacable nothingness.

The invisible force caught him again, ending Virgil's deadly plunge just shy of the ground, then let him drop the last ten feet onto packed black sand, knocking the breath right out of his lungs.

He'd been gang-tackled by defensive linemen and gotten up feeling better than this, the young man though blurrily, as he tried to scramble to his feet. No good. Almost immediately, he was knocked flat, seized again, and dragged across the ground like he'd gotten his foot caught in the stirrup, after being thrown from his horse. He and Parker ended up at last in a bruised, abraded, tangled-limb heap at the feet of the Hood.

So angry at the moment, he was actually a danger to himself, the Hood focused that fiery, destructive power on the two men lying before him, pinching their tracheas most of the way shut, to watch them slowly strangle.

_"You can have no idea..." _he hissed, through a headache that seemed likely to shatter his skull, _"what you've just... cost me! Vengeance... lay in my_ _hand... and you powerless... writhing... blind... curs! Sons and descendants of diseased alley-whores... and excrement-carrying slaves... You have snatched away... my victory!" _

Shaking his throbbing head, his teeth bared in an ugly snarl, the Hood told them, "It will be a very long time before I allow you to die!"

Unable to fight, or to free himself, Virgil clawed at the heedless sand while the world around him went slowly black.

_Thunderbird 2:_

He'd made it to the cockpit, gotten halfway through the pilot's instructions, when a hurried glance through the forward window revealed what was happening on the beach below. Gordon iced over, numb with shock, then exploded into sudden action, leaving Thunderbird 2 to finish the systems check on her own as he lunged for the hatch. Sliding down an access ladder he somehow knew would be there, Gordon reached the lower deck, and the Bird's mighty main gun.

The Hood eased his grip just a bit, allowing his victims a little air, a few more seconds of life. Their agony brought no satisfaction, though; not when his true quarry lay tucked away in a mountain burrow, just out of reach.

His cowardly underlings had begun creeping forth, gathering in silent knots and casting uneasy glances in the Hood's direction. They had excellent reason to fear. Once he'd taken Thunderbird 2, the girl, and at least one of the pilots, he'd force the General's hired scum to shoot themselves, then return with his prizes to Malaysia.

A sudden rumble whipped his gaze up and around. The cargo lifter's engines had come to life. As he looked on, startled, a panel slid aside in her tilted belly, revealing the long, gleaming barrel of a very large gun. A glittering red laser point appeared, precisely at the center of his chest. Hurling himself to one side, the Hood used his final reserves to raise Virgil and Parker, holding them over him as human shields.

"Fire, by all means," the Hood hissed, grinning like a skull through his own searing pain. "Pull the trigger and end this, if you're any sort of man. After all..., what matter a few sacrifices, in the pursuit of...a truly great deed?"

_"Bastard!"_ Gordon shouted, pounding an impotent fist on the gun mount. What was left to be done? He'd been effectively checked.

Then something shot by above the rocky little island; something sleek, silver, terribly fast and totally silent.

"What the hell...?"

Gordon was utterly unprepared for what came next. On the bright side, so was everyone else. A tremendous, ground-shaking, double sonic boom shattered windows, flattened heli-jets and great stands of palm trees, and drove everyone on the beach into sudden black unconsciousness.


	12. Chapter 12: Homeward

"...That, Ladies and Gentlemen, was an example of what the US Air Force calls 'tactical surprise'," Scott announced aloud, just as if he were narrating an air show. "_Very_ effective method for establishing the upper hand in combat situations."

Skillfully manipulating the Bird's horizontal flight controls, Scott cut his air speed, banked into a wide, sweeping turn over the ocean, and came back around for a second pass. On the way, he armed Thunderbird 1's enormous gun. He thought he'd got them all, but it never hurt to be careful...

No need, as it turned out. The only thing moving on the beach was Gordon, who'd just shot down Thunderbird 2's boarding ladder... in his underwear. Shaking his head, Scott found a big enough stretch of sand, lined her up, and set her screaming down.

Fifteen minutes later, he'd joined his under-dressed brother at the crash site. Then, after quickly checking on Virgil, he turned to face Gordon.

"Everything okay?" Scott inquired, giving the confused kid a quick back slap and hair tousle.

"Um..." Gordon began uncertainly, looking around at the heaped enemies, the beached cargo lifter, and his unconscious comrades. "We've had a bit of excitement... but... um, things seem t' be under control now, thanks. Yourself?"

Scott smiled fondly at his red-headed younger brother, the very polite family clown. Letting out a long, deep sigh, he said,

"Got a little hectic there, for awhile; couple of unexpected visitors, but..."

His wrist comm's sudden sharp crackle interrupted the rest of Scott's speech.

"Scott! What was all that noise?" It was Father, looking at once relieved and suspicious. "Where are Virgil and Gordon!"

"Right, uh... right here, Dad, and Parker, too. All in one piece." Scott replied, diplomatically leaving out a few key facts. Such as their condition. "They've subdued the opposition, and retaken Thunderbird 2. So... if you want to start down, we can secure the area and go home."

"I _told _them not to... never mind. F.A.B., Son. I'll gather up the family and head them over. Tracy, out."

Scott lowered his arm, giving his brother a stern look.

"Couldn't wait, huh?"

Gordon, interested to finally meet Scott (and still wondering what it was he'd left behind), said simply,

"Seemed like th' thing to do at th' time."

Scott, black-haired and blued eyed, upright in bearning as a military officer, looked like a by-the-book sort. All rules, all the time.

"Uh-huh," he snapped. "Hot heads, both of you, and one of these days it's gonna bite you on the ass. Now come on; let's get this mess straightened up before father gets here."

The two brothers got down to business, moving Virgil and Parker into the shade, then binding the Hood hand and foot, not that it really seemed necessary. The villain appeared to be comatose, breathing about once every five minutes, his heartbeat so slow as to be nearly undetectable. Still, he'd cheated death once before, and neither of the boys felt like taking any chances.

His battered henchmen gave no trouble at all upon waking. They seemed more than content to sit in the sand under Scott's watchful eye, hands on top of their heads. Prison might not be much of a future, but at least there was hope of betterment. With the Hood, there had been nothing at all ahead but a bleak, painful death.

Jeff and the others were halfway down the mountain when Virgil came to, at last. Wobbling to his feet like a new colt, he stood swaying for a moment, struggling to recover his equilibrium.

Still breathing, he noted... body parts all in pretty good working order, what he could see and feel of them... and Gordon and Scott were... _Scott!_

"Hey, Virge," his older brother greeted him, a big, relieved smile on his face. "You gonna live?"

"Sure... why not?" Virgil decided woozily. Squinting over at Gordon, he said, as Parker began to mutter and stir, "Mister, _you're_ out of uniform. Considering there 're ladies on this flight... you might want to put on something a little more formal."

Gordon glanced down at himself, then nodded. Halfway up the boarding ladder, he paused.

"Virgil!"

"Yeah...?"

"I, um... I've got a change of clothes up here, have I?"

Virgil started to frown, then recalled the situation. Fortunately, Scott's attention was back on Parker. He didn't feel up to much in the way of explanation, at the moment.

"Rear crew cabin. Third locker from the left, on the aft bulkhead; covered in PADI stickers, and a big number 4. Can't miss it."

"Right, thanks."

The promised locker was there, and in it, a neatly pressed and folded uniform; blue, with some kind of orange sash, a belt, and a holstered pistol. Boots, too, and a couple of handy bulk packages of socks and shorts.

The owner of the locker, he decided, must be a regular mess after every mission. Bits flying off in every direction, most likely. Gordon felt a little odd donning the fellow's uniform, and odder still when it fit. Perfectly. Well... no... something was missing. His hand went to the pullover shirt's left side, where a pair of fish... no, dolphins... gold ones, should have been.

A very strange, fuzzy memory came to him, then; incomplete, but powerful. There was a great deal of noise, a crowd of men yelling raucous encouragement... And an extremely large, very odd container filled with liquor. Everyone's drinks, he recalled suddenly, wincing a little. The entire audience had poured what was left of their drinks into the container, at the bottom of which lay the dolphins. And (he'd been solemnly informed) there was only one way to get to them. He'd have to drink his way clear to the bottom.

Gordon shook his head, remembering the party (and resultant hangover). He'd got thrown in the water, too, by... Davy. Davy Alvarez, and Murphy, and Peete, and a lot of other uniformed wildmen very nearly as sloshed as he'd been.

"First career goal," Alvarez had told Gordon, just before hurling him off the deck, "is to surface as many times as you dive!"

He smiled suddenly, remembering the cold, dark waters of San Francisco Bay... and then it was gone. He couldn't recall what had happened next, nor where they were now, his US Navy friends.

The thing he'd been avoiding till now, with TinTin's help, and Virgil's, came rising up all at once to stare him full in the face; the great, hollow burned spot where his life should have been. Gordon began to shake, wondering how he'd gotten here. How he'd acquired a uniform and a sudden, vast and sprawling family. Best, maybe, not to ask many questions, or let anyone else know what was wrong with him. The woman... _Tania's_... jeering comment flashed through his mind.

_'You put a great deal of faith in them, all things considered.'_

Deeply troubled, Gordon examined his reflection in the locker's mirror, automatically straightening his centerline and sash. What if she'd been right? What if they didn't intend, ever, to let him return to Europe, to his teammates, his home?

_Outside:_

The family reunited in the shadow of thunderbird 2, with a great deal of back slapping and rudely affectionate insults (between the brothers), handshakes (father to sons), and swift, embarrassed kisses (for the ladies). Fuel would need to be transferred from Thunderbird 1 to her bulkier sister, but Shadowbot was back online to cover their trail, and Brains had already called WASP to collect the unconscious Hood, and his cowed minions.

At first, Jeff had wanted to transport the lethal criminal to IR's London headquarters for questioning, thinking to make a brief stop at the Island for refueling, then push on in Thunderbird 2. But Virgil quickly put a screeching halt to that notion. Lifting a hand, the big, brown-eyed pilot said,

"Dad, with all due respect: _no_. I don't care if he's dead, locked in chains, and stuffed in a sack full of kryptonite. That sonuvabitch sets _not one foot_ on my Bird." Then, muttering under his breath, half seriously, "anyone wants my advice, they should bury him up to his neck in sand, and wait for the tide to come in."

Jeff didn't argue, realizing that Virgil, who'd twice been made prisoner by the sadistic Hood, had probably more reason to hate the man than anyone else present. Of course, he'd no notion what was going through TinTin's thoughts at the time, nor would she have told the truth if he'd asked.

"I understand, Son." Then, looking over at his oldest boy, "Scott?"

But Scott, too, declined.

"No place to put him but the hold, Dad, and I wouldn't be comfortable leaving him back there alone, with all that equipment. According to Virgil and Parker, he's got some kind of mental control over physical things, as well as people's minds. I don't trust him to stay tied up and knocked out, if no one's watching. And I wouldn't set Alan, or John, or anyone else to guard him, either, knowing what he's capable of. Too dangerous."

Jeff folded his arms upon his chest and stared at the ground, nodding quietly.

"Good arguments against the idea, all of them," he sighed. "Damn shame we can't find out who set him on our trail, though. Obviously, he's working for 'The General', but who _that_ is, and how he learned Gordon's identity from the Tower Fire rescue..."

Everyone turned then, for the young man in question had just deplaned, now properly uniformed. He stood there a moment with one hand on the steel boarding ladder, an odd look on his face.

"Clayton Reynolds...," Gordon whispered softly, clutching the silvery ladder rail white-knuckle tight.

Then, as though he only half-understood his own words,_ "When you get to hell..., tell them Clayton Reynolds sends his regards..."_

The others looked terribly confused. All but Virgil, on whose bluntly handsome face a look of dawning comprehension had taken hold.

"Dammit!" he snarled. "_Damn _that little psycho! Dad, he's right!" Virgil pivoted to face his father, nearly losing his balance in the unstable black sand. "Reynolds saw both of us, real clearly. He tried to kill Gordon right there by the elevators! Only the damn ladder saved his life. If Reynolds isn'tthe General, then he damn sure knows how to get hold of him!"

Jeff nodded once, scowling bleakly.

"Right. Good thinking, boys. John," the elder Tracy turned to his second born,

"...follow up. Wherever he is, if he's the General, this Clayton Reynolds has to have accounts. He has to communicate, pay his men and purchase equipment. _Find him!_ Get his picture out to every Interpol and WorldGov security office on Earth. I don't care how you do it, but I want him stopped. Seek and destroy, understood?"

The tall blond nodded assent, a hard little half-smile touching his scratched and bandaged face.

"Yes, Sir. My pleasure."

Everyone was aboard and getting settled, aided to their places by Gordon and John. When Penelope was safely strapped in, John did the same for his wounded youngest brother, seeing to it that Alan (still in a great deal of pain) was made as secure as possible. Then he headed for the back of the cabin, meaning to spread out his hand-made comm gear and set to work. He paused for a moment, though, beside Gennine's chair. She'd begun fussing over Alan, trying to get a pillow between the boy's seat straps and injured shoulder. Sensing John's presence, she became suddenly very still.

In all the years of her marriage to Jeff Tracy, John had never once spoken to her directly, nor, beside a single, wide-eyed glance when she'd first walked through the door, baby in arms, had he ever really looked at her. It was as though he'd tried to deny his step-mother's existence by refusing in any way to acknowledge her. Finally, Jeff 'd had to send him away to his grandparents, causing Scott and Virgil to resent her more deeply than ever. In Gennine's bitter experience, John Tracy could be very cold, and very, very stubborn.

She had no idea what to think, then, when he stopped beside her seat. A moment or two passed in silence, then he turned his head slightly, gave her a brief, sideways glance and a nod, saying,

"Thank you."

She essayed a weak smile and, though he didn't return it, he didn't look away, either.

"You're welcome, John," Gennine replied, a bit unsteadily. Fourteen years late, and all of six words, but they'd finally had their first conversation. And all because of a little aspirin, and a sewing kit. She felt like crying.

Silently raising Alan's shoulder strap a bit, John helped her get the pillow in place, then left them. Alan gave her a bleary, exhausted grin and said,

"Hey, Mom... welcome to the family!"

Gordon, meanwhile, had got TinTin secured in a seat closer to the cockpit. She seemed weak and shaken, he noticed worriedly, her dark eyes full of something deeply private, and utterly devastating. He hadn't been quite fast enough, it seemed. Feeling utterly inadequate, Gordon gave the girl's cold little hand a quick squeeze. Unconsciously, he echoed Virgil's words, saying,

"Don't worry, Angel. We'll figure somethin' out." TinTin looked up at her friend and nodded, very much needing to believe.

Patting her shoulder, Gordon headed over to check on Alan and Gennine. Alan had fallen into a fretful doze, twitching awake with a pained grunt every time a shift in position, or overly deep breath brought another fiery stab. He needed a real doctor, with genuine medicine, before that collar bone froze in the approximate shape of a hairpin.

Wishing there was more he could do, Gordon turned his attention to the boy's mother. Already tightly strapped in, Gennine put her arms out and reached him down for a hug, rubbing his back and saying,

"I love you, Sweetie. Fly safely."

Then Virgil poked his head through the hatch and called Gordon back to the cockpit, all but stamping with impatience. They were still perilously light on rocket fuel, the bit of Brains' special mix they'd borrowed from Thunderbird 1 being enough to fire the steering rockets four, maybe five times altogether, with no room for minor course corrections. Without the reactors and impeller field, they'd never have made it off the beach, much less all the way to Tracy Island. As it was, they'd be coming in hot; low, slow and wobbly.

Closing the hatch, Gordon went up front to the co-pilot's seat and strapped in.

"Ready?" Virgil asked, glancing up from his instrument panel. The Hood's jets and landing craft had been blasted to splinters, and WASP informed of the marooned mens' location, ( and warned that the Hood must be heavily sedated for safe transport) so there was nothing more to hold them. Scott was already airborne, holding position at fifteen thousand feet to provide escort.

Full of mixed emotions, Gordon nodded.

"All set," he lied stoutly.

The pilot seemed to read his mood, something Gordon suspected he did a lot. Flipping a final set of switches, Virgil keyed up the launch sequence and took hold of yoke and throttle, saying,

"Listen, Kiddo, I was thinking... What d' you say, next time dad sends me out to Wyoming to check on the spread, you tag along, again? When we're done at the ranch, we could go camping and fishing in the mountains. I could call up the twins, and..."

"Twins?" Gordon repeated, thinking with a touch of panic, _'More brothers?'_

But Virgil cleared his throat, smiling a little sheepishly.

"Yeah, the twins; Shari and Teena. My girlfriends. Part Mexican, part Cheyenne, mostly wildcat. They're a lot of fun, and they can handle themselves in the wilderness. What d' you think? Sound like a plan?"

With a wild and fearsome roar, Thunderbird 2 tore free of her sandy prison, vaulting into the sky like something out of myth or legend; some huge, ungainly monster that didn't quite belong in the real world. And all the more beautiful because of it.

Glancing covertly at his older brother's profile, Gordon saw quiet pride there, and integrity, and a genuine love for the big girl now shaking off her wounds to take to the air.

_'Do you remember me?' _He'd asked, back in the jungle. Maybe not, but Gordon was coming to know him, and the rest of his family, and what he'd learned so far gave him reason for hope.

"Well," he said, adjusting the trim on the steering rockets for the first crucial turn that would see them safely home. "I'll have t' check my schedule. There 're swim meets... an' the lasses 're forever pesterin'. Never a moment's peace."

Virgil snorted. "Take a break from the social whirl for a month this fall, Romeo. Do you good."

"Twins, you said?"

"Yup. Two of them. Although, uh... I didn't realize that, at first."

He was about to ask whether they were pretty, but figured Virgil would likely throw something hard and heavy (like a fist), so instead Gordon inquired innocently,

"Do they like me?"

"They like _me._" Virgil told him, looking at once amused and irritated.

"Right," Gordon joked quietly. "...F'r now."

It was quite an interesting flight home.


End file.
